


Upping the Ante: extras

by Nejinee



Series: The Bottom Line [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Office, Bossy Sherlock, Frottage, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Officelock, Oral Sex, Romance, Sassy John, Sexytimes, business stuff, i love that there's a sassy john tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:59:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nejinee/pseuds/Nejinee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson works in corporate London and deals with his ludicrous association with the company's Vice President, Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>These are the extra chapters in the 'Upping the Ante' Timeline. You may want to read that first. Or not. I'm a summary, not a cop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! If you've already read 'Upping the Ante', welcome back! If you haven't, welcome anyway!

Monday mornings were never John's favourite time of the week. mondays were made of torture and villainy. Mondays of years past were reminders of hangovers, dry throat and terrible decisions. Most of the time, they dictated how well a week would go. Today he was to present his business plan for the upcoming year. Mondays sucked.

 

He stood in front of his mirror, carefully looping his favourite tie into place. It was the white and navy striped one, his lucky tie. So named for its ability to woo women into his bedchamber, get him a promotion and make him feel less like ground up horse manure. It was just that lucky. Once it was done, he pulled his collar of his white shirt back into place. Perfect length, tie just brushing his belt. 

 

He slipped on his shoes, made sure he had packed all his laptop bits and bobs and slipped into his blazer. He walked over to the lounge window and eyed the horrible streets below. The weekend snow had slowed everything down. The tube, he hoped, should be running smoothly. Getting stuck in a cab wasn't an option this morning. Checking his watch, he grabbed his wool coat, tugged it on, pulled out his grey scarf from its pocket and wrapped it firmly about his neck.

 

Dapper. Awake. Alive. All good.

 

\---

 

The account execs had been listed alphabetically in the presentation order. That left John Hamish Watson at the bottom of list. This was good and bad. Good, because he had most of the day to get his notes firmly imprinted in his skull and left him with the opportunity to eye the results of his colleagues' presentations. Bad, because by four o'clock, the managers would probably be cranky after sitting through a day of blithering sales presentations by terrified account execs. 

In the boardroom, each executive was faced with the two sales managers, the VP and the President of H&H, all of whom were ready to tear the presenter apart if even one blip or indiscretion crossed their vision. Dimmock came out of his presentation shaking.

 

"But your projections were pretty good," Mike said to the younger account exec. "I would've been proud to present those numbers, lad. No harm."

Dimmock was sat on the edge of John's desk. "Aye, well, I still got it. My next year might be solid, but that's because my last was abysmal. Fuck. He don't half tear your face off if you skim over bits, does he?"

"His Highness? No. He looks for the weaknesses, the cracks. Probably should have warned you about that." Mike answered.

John ticked away at his keyboard, half listening.

Dimmock sighed, "I suppose I got off easy. Unlike Anderson, I'm guessing."

This made John look up. 

Mike smiled, "Oh yeah? Well, what then? King of the Tossers got an earful, did he? Wouldn't say a word after his presentation."

John had seen Anderson's face after exiting the boardroom. The man wouldn't look at anyone and flat out ignored any queries. This had pleased John immensely.

Dimmock lowered his voice like a gossiping village teenager. "Holmes mentioned Anderson, actually, in my presentation. Didn't expect that!"

John snorted. Nothing Sherlock Holmes did should surprise people anymore. Everyone should just adopt John's ways: Pretend Sherlock Holmes was a freaking nutter and move on with your life. Made things a lot easier.

"Said he expected worse off me. If a seasoned account guy like Anderson could consistently fuck up, then a junior such as myself should have been, well, horribler at presenting."

"More horrible," John corrected. He blinked and made eye contact with Mike.

Mike chuckled, "I do believe that might've been a compliment, lad."

Dimmock blinked and swept his gaze between his colleagues. "Really? From Holmes?"

John tilted his head and smirked, "Best I've ever heard."

 

Except for the words, "Yes, Watson, you do have a very talented tongue, don't you?" John was being perfectly honest. Sherlock was not one for compliments. Not really. He immediately thought of the VP massaging his arse not two nights ago, purring about how "perfectly muscular it was", how John's jogging regime was really "quite admirable."

 

Dimmock looked proud of himself. "Well, once your presentations are up, we should head down to the pub, yeah?" Dimmock smiled. 

Mike chuckled. "We'll see. It is Monday and John and I might not make it out alive if Anderson's already pissed them all off."

John smiled to himself, "You might find us in the ER. Beer welcome, of course."

 

\---

 

One after the other, the account executives trooped in and out of the boardroom. Forty-five minute presentations were bad enough without the heinous analysing of the higher-ups. Sarah was a bit pale after hers, which made John wince. She was a stellar account person, never putting a foot out of place. God, he was going to be torn apart. He found her in the kitchenette, leaning back against the counter, warm tea in her hands. When he flicked on the espresso machine, she looked up and gave a small smile.

John smiled back. "Rough, was it?" He asked, pulling out a mug from the top cupboard.

She shrugged and watched his hands fiddle with the machine's knobs. "No ... Well, yes. It was horrible, to be honest."

John looked at her and stilled. "That bad?"

She sighed, "I don't know what I expected. I mean, I've done this a million times, here and at other firms. Why is it so bloody difficult?"

John knew immediately what she meant. Pleasing management was harder with two leaders like the Holmes brothers at the helm. Even Lestrade, who is a balanced, careful man, was hard on them because the expectations were high for him too. His team had to perform, else he'd get the flaying. John didn't really blame them, though the Holmeses were really not that good with their words. Not people-friendly.

"Didn't insult your breeding or education, did they?" John tried for a joke. 

Sarah sighed. "No, thankfully it all remained focused on my lack of attention to detail and obsession with shaving my legs rather that focusing on my clients. God! That man!"

John pressed a button and hot coffee spurted into his mug. "Well, personally, I can see the importance and excellent value  in your legs being silky smooth. A commendable effort, Sawyer."

She laughed then. "Oh, John. If only you knew. He's just ... so hard on me. I don't know what I did, but whatever it is, I'm in his bad books."

John frowned and watched the last drips of coffee froth in his mug. "I don't think so, Sarah." At least he bloody hoped so. 

She just shook her head and sipped her tea. "Maybe he just hates women? He's awful to Molly, as you well know."

John thought about that, then immediately dismissed it. No, Sherlock was a dick to everyone. An equal opportunity dickhead. He just knew what tender spots to poke and burn, like a child with a marshmallow in the fireplace. With Sarah it was her image and how it affected her performance. With Anderson, it was his insufferable insecurity issues. With Molly, well, her dithering. Sherlock just liked to unsettle people.

 

Lord. John wondered what the man would say to mess him up. 

\---

The day had trudged along.

 

Mike was currently in there with the dragons. John eyed the time. Twenty minutes. He hoped he could last the full time limit in there. It wasn't bad to get past the half hour mark. It was when you came out early that there was a serious problem. That meant you'd been annihilated and couldn't even finish presenting, either from tears and stammering or because of the Holmes' sheer disgust and distaste in you. John rarely saw an account exec. outlast the month if that happened. Brutal, brutal.

 

He hadn't even seen any of the managers that morning, couldn't gauge their moods. Yes, all right, John had swanned in at half nine but he knew no one would be paying attention anyway. So, logically speaking, management had been in that stuffy room all day, with only a meagre lunch served at twelve. Lord, it was going to be liked walking into a viper pit.

 

John was nothing if not stalwart. It wasn't intimidating, really, more annoying. He wanted to get this thing over with. 

 

Whatever they had to say, he could let it roll over him. At least he could trust Lestrade to keep his comments civil. Maybe he'd focus on Lestrade, not give Sherlock the room? An image of Sherlock pinning him to the headboard flashed across his brain. Nope, nevermind.

 

Mike finally reappeared, ten minutes later than he was expected out. He looked haggard.

"Blimey," John breathed.

Mike slumped into his chair. Usually nothing could ruffle Mike. He was pretty solid and content in his years of experience. He was safe, most of the time. Good results, standard sales practices, the works. "Utter fucking wanker," he moaned, not even bothering to keep his voice down.

"Shit," John sighed.

"It's a good thing we're going drinking," Mike said loudly so Dimmock could hear. "Else I'd be calling HR instead. Bloody wanker. The things he said! God! And only half of it had anything to do with my bloody work!"

John's desk phone rang suddenly. He picked up. 

"Hello, John Watson." He answered automatically.

"All right, John?" Came Lestrade's echoey voice. Speakerphone. "You're up."

"On my way," John said before hanging up. He stood, grabbed his memory stick and folders, and paused to calm himself.

"Good luck, mate," Mike said.

"It was a pleasure working with you," John said, smirking.

Mike looked up and winked. "Fare thee well, soldier."

 

\---

When John pushed open the boardroom door, he was met by four faces. Lestrade, Adler, Mycroft and Sherlock.

John's eyes didn't stray too long on anyone.

"Afternoon," John said, keeping his voice neutral.

"All right, John," Lestrade said, sitting back in his seat, pen flicking between his fingers. Good sign. Lestrade was confident in John's abilities at least.

"Watson," Miss Adler said, leaning forward on her elbows. Her hair was perfectly coiffed as usual, her nails and lips blood red. When John had first met her, he wondered why she wasn't married. He knew better now. The woman was a shark.

Mycroft was reading some notes in a folder and Sherlock was tapping away at his phone.

Good. John wanted no distractions.

The laptop on the end of the table closest to John was already humming. John popped in his memory stick and checked all the cables were, in fact, connected. He didn't trust his colleagues to know their way around a toilet, nevermind a twenty-first century computer.

While his presentation loaded, he slid a folder across the table to each of the bosses.

Mycroft arched a brow as he opened the tightly organized sheaf of papers inside.

"Mm, good to see, Watson." He murmured. "Not everyone considers printouts at a presentation."

That could go both ways. Either he was chiding John on wasting paper, or commending him on supplying all the notes for easy reading. Whatever.

"I find it easier myself," John said, flicking his powerpoint to full screen.

And he was off.

John wasn't a very flashy presenter. He never fell into the hole of relying on gimmicks or splashy items. What he always strived for was getting his information across as succinctly as possible. He plowed through the first third unencumbered as he touched on key points, namely his successes in the last fiscal. He also explained the reason for losses and how he managed to overcome them. Sometimes Mycroft would ask him to pause on a slide as the president absorbed every iota of information before letting John move on. Then he got into his plans for the next year and it got a bit tricky.

"Stop," Sherlock said abruptly, pointing at the screen. John froze. For the first time all day, he looked up and made actual eye contact with the VP. He tried not to blink. He also tried not to give away the fact they'd shagged not too recently. How he could convey this with his face, he wasn't sure, but caution was never a bad thing.

"This page," Sherlock said, eyes skimming the screen. "You've got drastic changes in your percentages from last year. Explain how you plan to make that work out, based on your client roster."

John finally blinked. "Uh..." He was thrown by the voice. And the lips. The lips that had been pressed to his own, against his cheeks. The voice that rumbled sexily, like warm, dark chocolate, even when the words it spouted were 'percentages' and 'roster'.

John saw Lestrade lean forward, brow pinched.

"Well," John began, then cleared his throat. "I've upped my goal a fair bit. Seeing I made it this year, I saw no harm in pushing for a bit more. I think with my portfolio and my client's pre-planned buying schedule, I should be able to make it."

Sherlock eyed him. As did Mycroft and Adler. Lestrade just rubbed at his eyes.

"And yet your client list has no intended increase." Sherlock said, leaning back into his chair, giving John a good look at his super black suit and dark grey shirt. His one ankle came to rest on the opposing knee. Hmmm.

"I have dedicated clients," John countered. "Their spend for the next fiscal has already been mapped out and I know I'm in the mix."

He didn't look away from those pale eyes as they scanned his face.

"Tell me, Watson," came the smooth, cultured tone of Mycroft as the man leaned forward onto his elbows. He had a slight crease in his brow. Now all but Sherlock were propped on their elbows. John wasn't a behavioural analyst but even he knew this meant tension. "How many clients do you have, in total?"

John looked at the computer screen out of habit. "I have, um, seventeen."

John felt it. He could actually feel the burn of the slow smile creeping across Sherlock's face. John looked up. Yes, the bastard was smirking, lips tight, finger stroking his lower lip. Sherlock raised a brow cockily.

"Seventeen," Mycroft repeated, eyes roaming over the papers in his hands. "I think what my brother is trying to say," here Mycroft raised his eyes to the heavens before alighting them on John again, "Is that you have set yourself up possibly for great success, long term, if this venture succeeds, but you've also set yourself up for fantastic failure, which unfortunately could happen very suddenly."

John frowned. "Well, that is possible, yes, but my budget-"

"It's not your budget, John," Lestrade said, "It's how easy it could be for your goals to fall flat."

"You're a risk-taker," Sherlock rumbled. John kept his face neutral. Sherlock smiled with teeth this time. Because he was sat back in his seat, whereas his colleagues were sitting forward, any and all of his movements and expressions went unseen by the other managers. John wanted to stab him. Sherlock licked his lips then, the soft, wet appendage making an appearance.

John was abruptly thrown into a vision of that tongue in his mouth, tasting his skin, lapping at his balls. Fuck.

"It's only a risk if you don't plan ahead," John said as calmly as possible, shifting on his feet. "My budget isn't much larger than anyone else's."

"No," Mycroft said slowly, languidly, "but your colleagues have far more clients. I believe Stamford has almost double, in fact."

John's hands pulled into fists, so he knotted them behind his back. "What you're saying," he said calmly, trying not to notice how Sherlock's eyes were roaming over him. "Is that if I lose even one client, maybe two over the course of the year, my goals will falter and I could seriously miss budget. I understand that. I realize I don't have the most clients but I do have the largest."

"So it seems," Sherlock murmured, finger still pressing to his lip.

God, god, god. John Watson, do not blush. Do not get an erection. Do not do anything! Don't even breathe!

"You do have massive clients," Miss Adler purred, eyes scanning over the screen behind John. "I will give you that. But you have to be able to manage expectations. How do you plan on making sure one of them doesn't fall through?"

John breathed. "Well, honestly, there's not much I can do if, somewhere down the line, one of my clients goes belly-up. What I do know, is my clients like working with me. And I did bring in three of them only over the last six months."

"Still good, John," Lestrade nodded, at least conceding the fact that John had raked in a shitload of money.

"I do still pitch big accounts, so maybe I'll manage a couple new ones next fiscal? Can't really tell yet."

"You have the largest accounts in this office," Sherlock said. "You lose one of them, what then?"

John thought about it. "Go out, get a pint, then head back out there, I suppose," John said, eyes meeting Sherlock's. This was not something you said to the Vp or president of a multi-million pound organization. Flippancy with their money? Dangerous territory.

"Risky," Sherlock said, hand coming to rest on his thigh. John daren't look. Sherlock smiled, his hand slowly sliding towards his knee and back again.

John licked his lips. Oh, he knew this would happen, damnit! Can't trust a Holmes as far as he could toss one.

"Well," Mycroft said, sitting back. "So long as you are clear on this possible problem, Watson, no need to stop you further. Continue this presentation. We all want to be home before dinner, I'm sure."

And so John continued, though hs nerve was shaken because everytime he looked up, Sherlock only seemed more smug. He even winked at John at one point, which was very silly and obviously just a tactic for flustering John. John lost his wording at one point when Sherlock slipped the tip of his third finger into his mouth, his chin resting on his palm, as though contemplating the chart on screen. Those white teeth appeared, biting softly at the pink digit.

Fuck.

John soldiered on, though. Bloody hell, did he.

He fended off a few more questions, ready with reasonable answers. And finally, mercifully, it was over.

"I think we are quite done, thank you, Watson," Mycroft smiled that small, fake smile, closing the folder in front of him.

John nodded as Adler stood, gathering her own notes. Lestrade just sat back, looking exhausted. "Finally," he muttered. Mycroft opened the door for Miss Adler who just winked at John as she passed. Mycroft followed her out.

John busied himself with shutting down his presentation. Lestrade came round and patted his shoulder. "Not bad," he said. "Really."

John smiled up at him, "Good to hear." John felt as tired as Lestrade looked. "The team's getting beers after, in case you're interested," John added.

Lestrade rubbed at his temple. "Normally I'd say bugger that, I'm sick of all your sodding faces, but I might join in. I do need alcohol."

John chuckled. "Long day."

"Oh God, John, you have absolutely no idea." Lestrade rolled his eyes, patted John's shoulder again and left to go back to his own office.

John unplugged the laptop and pulled his memory stick free. He closed the communal computer, thinking of putting it in its hiding spot, picked up his remaining notes and stood, arms full.

Sherlock was right beside him. John didn't jump. He just blinked.

"Mr. Holmes," he said quietly. Sherlock's eyes became slits. "Uh, Sherlock," John amended. "Enjoy my presentation? Enjoy tearing it apart?"

Sherlock watched him struggle with all the equipment and papers in his hands. "I didn't tear you apart. Not yet, anyway."

John rolled his eyes and waited for the taller man to open the door for him.

As John exited, he nodded to Molly and Sarah who were leaving. "Pub?" Molly whispered through her oversized multi-coloured scarf.

John nodded quickly and carried on.

Sherlock followed him back to his cubicle, not once offering any help.

Mike was putting his coat on. He paused when Sherlock came to stand in the entrance to their cubicle. Mike's eyes flicked to John, who just rolled his eyes.

"Back, John? We're heading out, you comin-" Dimmock's head popped over the cubicle wall, then immediately retreated. John could have laughed. 

"Yes, yes, all right," John said. "I'll meet you lot there."

Mike just nodded and squeezed past Sherlock, who couldn't even be bothered to step aside, bleeding sod. Mike was probably still stinging from his own presentation. John sat down and flicked through his email. Nothing too important. The rest could wait for the morning. As he closed his many porgrams, he became uncomfortably aware of his boss.

"Any particular reason why you're leaning against my cubicle?" He asked, still staring at the monitor.

No answer. John looked up. Sherlock was staring at him, taking him in.

"Well?" John huffed.

Sherlock raised a brow and tilted his head.

"You edited slide twenty-seven," Sherlock murmured. 

John frowned, "So you didn't stare at my final business plan. So what?"

"Hmmm, except I did. You changed that today. It was fully complete last night."

John felt his cheeks redden. He'd spent half of Sunday in the office, finishing his damn presentation. "I checked in periodically." Sherlock murmured, hands resting in his trouser pockets.

John looked up at Sherlock,"How could you? No one but me and Dimmock were here yesterday." Slaving away.

Sherlock made a pitying face, "Oh Watson, I have VPN."

Balls, of course. The VP would be given access to all servers from anywhere in the world. Of course.

"So you were spying on my work?"

Sherlock stood tall, "Curious." His hands slipped out of his pockets and tugged at his blazer. Sherlock cricked his neck. "I like to see how tour brain works, Watson."

John felt himself stiffen. Was that an insult? Probably. Oh who cared?

He heard the fans in his computer stop whirring Nd he bent to pack his bag. Standing, he pulled his coat off the rack and slipped into it.

Sherlock eyed him, gaze sliding over John's dark grey suit. The tall man pulled his lower lip into his mouth, tongue peeking through. John paused, hands on his scarf.

"Dimmock?" He called loudly. No answer. "Sarah?" He yelled.

Sherlock looked up, his height allowing him to scan over the cubicle walls. Bastard.

"All gone, it seems," he said. When those pale eyes turned back to John, Sherlock smirked. "Pub? Mr. Popularity."

Sherlock moved in, hands slipping under John's open coat and blazer, coming to rest on his warm waist. John felt every blood vessel in his body come to a standstill while his arteries started to redirect blood southwards.

"Jesus," he muttered as Sherlock stepped into his space. His fucking boss. His superior in more ways than one. His sexy bloody boss was making a move. Again. He really hadn't expected it to happen twice. He figured Friday and Saturday had been a fluke. A fucking amazing fluke, but one nonetheless.

"I keep telling you, it's-"

"Sherlock," John, against all professional judgement, leaned up into that warmth. "I know."

He kissed the grin that appeared. 

"Your colleagues are waiting for you," Sherlock whispered into his lips. His hands pulled John close enough to feel the taller man's arousal.

"Well, they'll just have to wait, won't they?"

Sherlock just grinned wider.

 

\---

 

As much as office sex sounded like one of life's adventures, it wasn't John's thing. So, he found himself in Sherlock's very nice, very posh flat. Admittedly he was naked, again. Oh, and on his knees in front of Sherlock, who was sprawled across a very expensive, probably Victorian, priceless, settee. Oh, and enjoying every moment.

 

"Mm, Watson," Sherlock panted, fingers combing through John's hair.

John licked at the head, loving how wet the taller man was. His eyes drifted up, up over that pale, tense torso, those spread legs, up to that face with puckered, swollen lips and a riot of curls.

John sucked Sherlock off like he'd done it most of his life, which was patently untrue. He just seemed to have a thing for doing it to Sherlock. Quick learner. It was exhilarating, watching the VP roll himself up in a mess, toes pressed to the carpet, thigh either side of John's head. God, it was empowering! He sucked harder, massaging with his wet tongue.

John shivered when Sherlock moaned, fingers tugging his short hair.

He pulled away with a wet 'pop' and grinned.

Sherlock scowled and panted. His feet came up to pull at John, pressing into his sides and back, urging John back to his task. John just chuckled.

"Any complaints on this performance, boss?"

Sherlock licked his lips languidly, toying with John. His fingers left John's hair and shifted up to  rest in Sherlock's dark curls, like some pre-raphaelite painting. Bloody hell. Debauched was the word.

John scooched up, sliding up between Sherlock's legs, feet pressing against the carpet as leverage. He licked at Sherlock's full lips. "I'll take that as a definite 'no'" he murmured.

Sherlock shifted his hips up, rubbing his cock against John's. His wet skin rubbing against John's dry made for interesting friction. 

"You're going to be late, Watson," Sherlock murred, nipping at John's lip. "As team Captain, you must keep your colleagues' dreams afloat."

John snorted. "Team Captain? Of what? Alcoholics Anonymous?"

Sherlock smirked and pulled John's hips closer, rubbing them together.

John shuddered and pressed forward. He slipped his left hand down between them, using his right to keep his balance as it held onto the back of the settee. "Shit," he gasped as his hand held both their cocks and slowly, slowly began tugging.

"Faster," Sherlock growled, hips twitching. 

John complied, grateful for the new slickness. Their cocks were hot in his hand, Sherlock's a sight for sore eyes. John watched them move through his fingers, slick, flushed. God.

"Unh," Sherlock breathed, hips twitching to match John's rhythm. "Faster."

John pumped them. Harder. Faster. More.

He shuddered his breath over Sherlock's mouth, not wanting to lose sight of the taller man's ecstasy.

Sherlock made the best faces. His brows were tight, concentrating, his cheeks flushed, his teeth biting at lips.

"Oh ... God ..."John grunted, feeling his voice jump an octave. "Shit. Shit."

He was so close, he could feel the blood rushing behind his ears. Sherlock was just as bad, chest heaving, fingers clawing at John's shoulders.

"Fucking Harder, Watson!" He growled, that resonating voice vibrating so deep down inside John that it, well, it sent him over the edge. John's grip was almost painful as his hand squeezed them both, tugging a violent orgasm out of John, Sherlock following close behind. Semen spattered between them, hot and sticky. Sherlock's hips juddered, his penis twitching mercilessly in John's palm. Fucking beautiful. John couldn't have looked away if he tried. Sherlock Holmes was a fucking demon.

The two men slumped onto the settee, John not quite able to keep himself up, eventually sliding to the floor. He rested his forehead on the cushion available between Sherlock's thighs. 

"God, I might be having a heart attack," he huffed out, eyes closed.

Hands pulled at his shoulders. John lifted his ridiculously heavy head. "What."

"Get up here, Watson."

John didn't want to comply, but, well, it was far too enticing. He clambered shakily onto Sherlock, straddling him.

Sherlock pulled his head close and kissed him, tongue languidly playing. John could have died right there. They licked and kissed and fondled each other a bit more, both content as kittens.

Sherlock mumbled something but it came out slurred as John was currently tugging at his bottom lip, sucking it between his own lips.

He let go. "What was that?"

"You're going to be late."

John blinked. The pub. "Are you kicking me out? Already?"

Sherlock cocked a brow. "No. You said you were going to meet them. Are you not?"

John contemplated that. "I suppose. But you're using it to kick me out, aren't you?"

Sherlock eyed him warily, as he would any dodgy client. "Watson, I've had to spend the entire day listening to every moronic sales person alive babble at me about sales figures. I also had to do this while not thinking about your massive cock up my arse. Then I had to watch you present, imagine how fitted your underwear was under your suit, imagine you naked across the boardroom table and somehow, somehow, I managed to make it through without sucking you off right in front of all of upper management. Yet somehow, in your boring little brain, it makes sense for me to want to kick you out of my warm, clothing-free flat so you can go get sloshed with a bunch of sad salespeople. What is it like in your funny little head?"

John gawped.

"Hm. Right. So, if I go to the pub, can I come back here?"

Sherlock kissed him deeply, filthily. "How long do you think you can last out there, before you'll want my cock again?"

John pulled away, like an addict. "An hour, at least. Two."

Sherlock eyed him. "Twenty minutes."

John scowled. "You think very little of my self-control, don't you? Fine. Deal's on."

Sherlock smirked as John slid off to get redressed.

"Deal's on," he murmured.

 

\---

 

"Ah! There he is! John! About time!" Dimmock punched John in the arm as he came up to their already crowded table. The pub was really busy for a Monday.

"Got held back, sorry," he answered, indicating to the waitress for a beer.

"Took your time," Mike added. 

Lestrade came up on John's other side. He was pickled. John laughed. "You really have had a rough day, haven't you, boss?"

Lestrade just frowned and stared at John. John stared back. "Glad you showed up, Watson."

John grinned and checked the clock on the wall. "Yeah, can't disappoint my team, can I?"

"Where were you, anyway?" Dimmock asked.

John looked around at the sea of familiar faces, all eager and happy to see him. 

 

I was sucking the vice president off, making sure to lick every precious, pale swatch of skin I could get my greedy fingers on. Then we made out. A lot.

 

"Oh, you know. Bit of this, bit of that."

 

It was a miracle, but they believed him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a time jump here. I feel like this is an almost relatable chapter. I can see this ridiculous day happening, minus the Holmes, of course.

"Anderson, shut up and sit down."  
John watched Lestrade glare at his colleague.  
"No, wait," Anderson whined, "I don't see why he can just sit back and declare that we're such a pathetic bunch. He's never even in the office long enough to see us working!"  
"I said, sit down," Lestrade growled.  
Sarah shifted uncomfortably next to John. Her notebook doodles were getting far scribblier. They'd been in their weekly update meeting for an hour already, with no sign of Anderson backing off. Lord.  
"Am I really the only one?" Anderson sat down forcefully, his chair clucking in protest. He looked around the room. Mike just shrugged. Sally looked as annoyed as Anderson, but she knew when to keep her mouth shut.  
"Listen, Anderson, you are trying my patience already." Lestrade said, slamming his notebook shut. Well, that was that, then. Sarah carefully closed her own notebook and tucked her pen into its spine. "This meeting is over. Get back back to work. Out!"  
The other account execs shuffled about and got to their feet. They hurriedly pushed their chairs in and exited the room. Anderson huffed loudly and stormed out. John smiled at Sarah as they stood. "Lovely man," he said. "So calm. So professional."  
Sarah smiled and rolled her eyes.  
They left the meeting room and headed back to their desks.  
John dropped his notebook onto his desk with a sigh. What a waste of time that was. Their weekly meetings were always annoying, but God, this one had just dragged. They'd had a video conference with Mycroft and Sherlock, the former in Paris, the latter, in Berlin. With the launch of a slew of new products, they'd alerted the sales teams to new sales strategies that were being rolled out. Research was officially backlogged with the new sales material and the design team was also bogged down in media branding. That meant the sales teams had to make do without any extra help for the next week or so. Anderson had lost his shit when he realized his latest proposal wouldn't be getting all the bells and whistles he liked. He'd then gotten his arse handed to him by a snippy Sherlock who pointed out that if Anderson was really of any use to anyone, he'd have stopped his manic drinking and time-wasting on company time. So it was true then, that Anderson was taking liberties with his expense account. Sherlock was probably out of line with his comment on Anderson's philandering too, but the expense account issue had rankled with Mycroft. The elder Holmes had made a few sharp comments to Lestrade then, expecting him to keep a lid on his team's expenses. That had annoyed Lestrade, who'd then snapped at Anderson, who'd called out a few of his colleagues' misdeamenors, including John's apparent holy status under Lestrade's umbrella of safety. Saying John was like the prodigal son wasn't anything new. The words 'favouritism' and 'golden boy' had been thrown about enough already. John wasn't too bothered. Anderson was a little shit. The fact he couldn't see past John's excellent performance and chose instead to take offence, well, that was his bloody problem, wasn't it?

It was Friday. The weekend was just on the horizon and John had been paid, which was lovely. He looked out his window, over the dreary, sodden city of London. It was a muggy day in April, perfect for laying about in bed.  
Not much longer and he could settle into his settee and watch some rubbish TV. Maybe even... no, maybe not.

John sat down and clicked through his files open on his desktop. He paused on the weather website. He should probably ... he clicked on continental Europe. A barrage of numbers popped up. He idly scrolled about the map, pretending he wasn't just going to click on the obvious choice.  
Amsterdam was lucky. Oh, look at that, Berlin. John glanced at Mike, his cubicle-mate. Stamford was on the phone with his wife. John looked back to his screen. The cursor hovered over the city name, then he clicked. A close-up view of the city expanded out. Hmm, not the best weather in Berlin either.  
So Sherlock was probably staying indoors too. In Berlin. A plane trip away. John rubbed at his face. God, this was pathetic.  
He closed the browser and got on with his work, trying to keep himself distracted and away from the fact that Sherlock probably wouldn't be in the office until next week.

Sherlock had been pissy during the meeting. He wasn't very pleasant most days. Why John wondered what he was up to should have been of concern. The VP had been out of the office for the last three weeks on business operations. John hadn't seen him in the flesh for ages.

When his dark visage had been on John's radar, it was during grueling video meetings like the one John had just survived. Just last week he'd torn John's head off in front of the others for overlooking an opportunity in the financial category. Belittling his employees was easy for Sherlock, second nature. Irene Adler was almost as bad. John had seen her team scuttling about all week, heads low. She was apparently on the warpath as well.

As John printed a document, he wondered why the VP hadn't been called up on Human Resource issues. The man's folder must be three encyclopedias thick. John stood up and stretched before heading across the office.  
He stood at the printer, waiting for it to spit out his document. Dull.

He looked about the small printer room. Boxes of paper and binders sat piled up. Someone had had a fight with the giant stapler again going by the damaged staples and twisted paper shreds. That thing was cursed.  
This room reminded John of the last time Sherlock had physically been in the office.  
Ages ago, John had been standing here, waiting as usual. The hum and swish of paper being spat out was almost therapeutic. He'd been in a daydream.  
Then Sherlock had showed up.  
He'd had his black shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his sharp trousers perfectly ironed and pressed, shoes gleaming as always.  
John had just nodded at him.  
"Does this thing always take so long?" Sherlock had asked, clearly annoyed. He had a printer in his office, presumably.  
"Yes, well, the minions have to make do," John had answered curtly.  
Sherlock then snorted and proceeded to flick through the printer settings. It had even begun beeping. Then the VP had gotten frustrated and dropped into a crouch, tearing the paper drawers open. John had just ogled his arse. Perfectly framed, it was, and with just a hint of his underwear outlined through the soft material. 

John had had more than a few dreams about Sherlock in the printer room since then. Sherlock bent over the printer had been a particular favourite.

Once the printer beeped, John picked up his papers. He skimmed over them on his way back to his desk. 

He found Sarah sitting in his seat.   
"Hallo, what's this then?" He murmured with a grin. She smiled, swiveling.   
"What are you doing this weekend, John?" She asked. His eyes skimmed over her smooth, silky legs.  
"No plans, as yet," he answered, dropping his printouts onto the desk.  
He glanced over at Mike. Still on the phone. John perched on his own desk and looked back at Sarah and her soft, pale legs.  
"Well," she began, "I may have picked up a couple of free winery tour tickets. Lovely hotel, I've heard. Interested?"  
"Winery? You mean a weekend of drinking and pretending we're posh?"  
Sarah laughed, "Oh, we stopped pretending a long time ago."  
He wondered then if she was referring to anything else. Sarah was pretty, and damn smart. The perfect woman, really. He knew she had a thing for him, and he still caught himself eyeing her up. Their last fling had been months ago. That seemed to be about as far as they could get before simmering back down to 'just colleagues'. Bit repetitive. Not like either of them had a constant significant other.  
Well.  
An inconsistent bastard. Did that count? John rarely catalogued Sherlock the way he would other lovers. He wasn't even sure if 'lover' was the right term. Temperamental sexual reminder, perhaps. Transient robotic infatuation? Lip-licking vice president?

"I think that sounds lovely," John said, with a wink that indicated he knew what a weekend away really meant. Sarah smirked and stood.   
"Jolly good. Tomorrow morning, I'll come round yours to pick you up."  
"Right-o," He saluted her as she left and slumped into his seat. Well, that would keep him occupied for the weekend at least.

As he went about the rest of his day, he pondered about lovers in general. He and Sarah were close and had, obviously been very close. Their last encounter had been smooth and almost casual, starting with drinks, tipsyness and eventually with her flowery sheets wrapped around them both. Nice and typical. It had been much the same as their other encounters.   
John at least knew Sarah was a catch based on his past experience with women. Working in Sales introduced you to every sort of account person available. There were the posh, dressy girls with their make up and high heels (patent red). Then there were the women with testicles, the ones who were so driven by their careers they hardly had a moment to breathe, nevermind hold a terrible relationship together. There were the design girls, the 'niche' women, whose skills and ideologies far outstripped John's own. And Anderson liked to remind them all that 'the dumb women were always the best in bed'. It was a wonder what Donovon saw in the prat.

Anyway, Sarah was good. John's past girlfriends were varied and gave him endless lists of what he did and didn't want in a relationship. He was, after all, a very successful, patient and consistent creature of habit. And he liked sex. John reveled in a good lay. He was fairly proficient in the art of sexual play and spent as much, if not more time on his partners as he did himself. What was the point in masturbation when another person was in the room? An image of Sherlock, hand wrapped around his own dick came to mind. Nope, nothing like his exes.

There was Michelle, who wouldn't kiss John after he'd gone down on her. She also kept wipes in every room so they could clean up before nodding off. 

Sherlock was a man. Messy with bodily fluids and fully aware of the aroma of sex. He loved licking John clean, or breathing him in. It never bothered Sherlock that John was sweaty after his run. If anything, it distracted him.

Then there'd been Elena who had such a low sex drive that over the course of their six month relationship, they'd slept together exactly six times. John could remember the dates. 

John could also remember the handful of times he and Sherlock had slept together. The man had an interesting sexual appetite. Ravenous and startling. John had never felt so engulfed in another person's arousal before. It was heady.

Many, many years ago, he'd gone on a few dates with a local girl named Sam. Sam wasn't one for monogamy, as he'd discovered one night. Admittedly, finding two women entwined on his settee hadn't been the toughest thing in the world to overcome, but it had become a bit obvious over time that Sam wasn't keeping herself very exclusive to, well, anyone. Not John's style.

Sherlock was temperamental. He ordered John about a lot. He mocked John all the time. He also didn't expect much back, it seemed. Just be there for his every beck and call. God, it could be infuriating. 

Then there'd been Nel, who was a little underweight and prone to giving John sweats everytime he bent into her or held her too firmly. Thin as a twig and about as strong, that one. That hadn't lasted long. John wanted a partner, not a simpering mess.

Sherlock was rough. Pushing and pulling at John was fairly normal. He expected John's retaliation, marveled at it. They were physical equals and John could hold Sherlock down, bend him over and still feel like he couldn't hurt the man. Not that John aimed to hurt. He just knew Sherlock wasn't delicate. If anything, this was the greatest finding for John. Sleeping with a man gave him equal status in the bedroom. Equal physical status.

The only niggling part in all of this was the whole 'fucking the vice president' business. John was capable of keeping any and all dalliances under wraps. He assumed Sherlock would too. They'd never talked about it because it was all fluff. Big deal. It was just the idea that Sherlock was his actual, finite boss. He could, obviously, do whatever he wanted, but why with John? Of all the people in the world, why fuck around with a minor sales exec? Didn't he have baronesses to plunder? Princes to roll?

John shook his head as the familiar thoughts swirled in his brain.  
He had to focus. The spreadsheet in front of him needed his attention.

\---

"Five o'clock!" Came Dimmock's bellow. He banged the cubicle wall separating him and John. "Closing time!"  
John chuckled. "Thank you for the update," he said. His desk phone rang suddenly, giving John a fright. He glanced at it, then at Mike. Mike shrugged. "Wouldn't answer if I were you."  
Dimmock's head appeared over the wall. "Don't, John! It'll only be a nagging client! Run, man!"  
John sighed. He didn't recognize the number. He picked up the headset.  
"Hello, John Watson."  
"Airports are an incestuous pool of maudlin inadequacy. Hateful places."  
John blinked. "Are ... you what?"  
"Really, Watson, do pay attention. Airport, a place where winged aircraft land and take off. A land of indomitable line-ups and frustration. I detest them."  
"You're phoning me, at my desk." John said calmly, keeping his voice stable. No need in letting his colleagues know the VP was phoning him directly from Europe. He glanced over at Mike, who was shutting his computer down. He also glanced up. Dimmock still hovered over the wall. The younger exec raised his brows in question. John ignored him.  
"Astute as always," came Sherlock's dusky reply.  
"I take it you just got in?"  
"Obviously."  
John held back a sigh. "Not obvious. Not at all."  
"I hate airports. They should be burnt to the ground. All of them."  
John smiled. He couldn't help himself. "Great idea. Thought you were a frequent flier. Stamps in every city. Should be old hat for you."  
"Ugh," came the disgruntled reply. "Taxi!"  
John could hear sounds of traffic and people. "Wait, ... you're home?"  
He heard a bunch of random noises and Sherlock's sharp voice ordering some poor soul about. Then a door slam.  
"I will be soon. Twenty minutes and I expect to find you at my flat. Unless you are otherwise occupied, of course. Courtesy leads me to believe I shouldn't assume you are free this evening."  
John glanced at the clock. His mind raced. Unexpected!  
"Uh, well, I have to be up early tomorrow, so -"  
"Why?" Sherlock asked sharply.  
John rubbed at his mouth. "I, uh, have plans. Weekend plans."  
"Oh God, spare me. The date is the fifteenth, going by the timeline and what yoir options are ... short holiday. No, winery tickets. With whom?"  
John blinked, "How the hell-"  
"We had a few tickets left. I told Mycroft they would be better spent on clients but for some noble reason, he thought the minions might prefer them. Only a handful, though."  
"Oh."  
"You didn't answer me."  
"What?"  
Sherlock sighed like a man wounded. "Who. Is. Taking. You. On. A. Bloody. Wine. Tour?"  
"Oh, uh..."  
Sherlock said something awful, presumably to the cabbie. Then he came back. "Sawyer? Again? Your hesitation gave you away. Surely not, Watson. How tedious."  
Dimmock appeared, coat on, at the cubicle entry. He frowned. John waved. Dimmock rolled his eyes and waved back. Mike was gone.  
"Am I to believe you will not be having dinner with me tonight because your plans of sexual gratification include a dull redhead with nothing more than fluff between her ears?"  
"You don't do dinner," John countered.  
"So she is dull. Good."  
"Now hang on -"  
"Fifteen minutes."  
John scowled. "Fine. Yes. Dinner. But I do have to be home early."  
"How dreadful," Sherlock rumbled, his voice buzzing in John's ear. He knew he'd won this round.

 

\---

John's breathing was steadying. His hands were tight against Sherlock's hips, still digging into the prominent hipbones.   
Sherlock's shirt was half off, his trousers and underwear lost between the front door and the kitchen counter. God.

John pressed his face into Sherlock's warm, slightly damp chest. He inhaled. Sherlock smelled like a traveller, someone who'd been stuck in terminals and meetings all day. He smelled fucking amazing. The taller man was barely perched on the counter, legs hanging limply, toes barely grazing the floor. Tall git. How he always managed to be rid of his socks was a mystery and some form of sorcery to John.

"I thought you were returning to London next week," John said, nuzzling a collarbone. Their sexual escapade had definitely taken the edge off.  
"I know," Sherlock answered. John heard a clicking sound. He looked up.  
"Are you actually on your phone? Really?"  
Sherlock grunted, thumb flicking over the small device. Where had it been stashed? Sorcerer.  
John shook his head and pulled away. His own trousers were still snagged around his ankles, his shirt long gone. Bloody hell, they really hadn't wasted time.  
He watched his own fingers caress Sherlock's hipbones. The man needed to eat. Dinner? Hah! What a joke.

The skin was so pale, so soft. He looked up. Sherlock was eyeing him.  
"So this was, what? A surprise?"  
Sherlock snorted at that. "I wanted to be home. Why waste two more days in Germany?"  
"You could have popped over to France, visited your brother."  
Sherlock definitely had the patronizing glare down pat. So, no then.  
The tall man slid off the counter, leaving his phone on the cold marble. "Shower."  
"Then dinner?" John asked hopefully. "Or I can leave. Always an option."  
Sherlock scowled, "You do try my patience sometimes. Yes, dinner."  
He took John's hand and tugged.  
"Let's get the grime of London scrubbed off that delicious skin of yours, shall we?"  
John was pulled away from the kitchen. Life could be worse, he supposed.  
\---

"Turn it off!"   
John was scrambling across the bed, Sherlock's bellow in his ear. Fuck, he could barely see straight, what with waking up to the sound of his bloody mobile going off.  
He rolled off the bed and headed to the bureau across the room unsteadily.  
Groggily, he figured out the 'answer' button.  
"Are you awake?" Came a happy, familiar voice. "I'm outside your flat."  
John blinked. Oh God.  
"Shit. Sarah. God, I'm sorry."  
Sherlock shuffled about on the bed, in his nest of a duvet. John winced.  
Sarah chuckled. "No worries, we all need a bit of a sleep in. Let me in and I can help you pack."  
John made a face that he was glad she couldn't see. It was the 'oh buggering bugger fuck, I've cocked this up!' face.  
"Ah, no, see. Thing is, Sarah. I, uh, can't make it. I honestly forgot to call you last night. Fuck, I'm an arse."  
There was silence on the end of the line. "Sarah?"  
"No, it's all right," came her stiff response. "It was a bit last minute. I understand."  
"Wait, wait," John said, feeling like the tool of the century. "I am sorry. I would have liked the trip, honestly. Maybe take a girlfriend or summat with you?"  
Sarah was so quiet, John could hear the trees rustling on his street where she was standing; miles away from where John was at the moment, stark naked.  
"I'll just let you go, John. Get some rest."  
God! Urgh!  
"I'm so sorry-"  
"Nevermind. Enjoy your weekend, John."  
And she clicked off. John groaned and dropped his mobile, hands crushing at his face.   
"You're not going, I take it?" came Sherlock's dusky, sleepy voice from the vicinity of the bed.  
John sighed and shook his head before moving back to the comforting nest. He climbed onto the lush bed, flipping covers back to find his spot. Sherlock was nestled in there like a rabbit in the wintertime.  
"No. And probably will never be invited to anything ever again."  
Sherlock blinked sleepily as John slumped back against the pillows. "You didn't even think of going."  
John frowned down at him. "What?"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed that John still hadn't worked out his brain's neural frequency. "You could have hastily dressed and run off instead. Sawyer would have waited. She probably still is waiting. Hoping for the ever stoic John Watson to show up."  
"Oh shut it," John groaned, sliding down, hands on face.  
"But you didn't go." Sherlock sidled up to John, his errant curls making him look almost harmless.  
John sighed again, right hand coming to rest against Sherlock's chin. "I was only going to go to keep myself busy."  
"You wanted to have sex with Sawyer again."  
John nodded, "Yes, I suppose. Right gentleman, aren't I?"  
Sherlock scooched forward on his elbows til he was staring down at John. "Honesty is worth more than false chivalry, Watson."  
True. But he still felt like a heel.  
"Not like you worry about such things." John countered.  
"Boring," Sherlock flipped onto his back, falling back onto his pillows. "Don't get tediously emotional, Watson. You know how that bores me."

"Yeah. I know." John said quietly.

\---


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahoy!

Once a year, H&H paid for the entire London office to take a trip to Northern Wales where the annual sales conference was to be held. It was touted as a reason to present the annual plan and alert all departments about any changes coming up in the next year. Most of the teams took it for what it really was: a massive excuse to get out of the office, enjoy the Welsh coastal countryside and get shitfaced.

Four days of conferencing led to a lot of organizational hoo-haa. Molly was almost driven to madness with the phone calls, emails, ticket bookings and Sherlock's surly temper. Usually the office travelled by train, and sometimes car, but this year they were being flown out. John didn't have to stretch his imagination as to why the order was changed. Too many hours on a train with alcohol tended to lead to a barrage of drunk salespeople. Contrary to popular belief, they weren't actually on vacation. It was serious business. After last year's debacle, when a few members of the team missed their train and got lost in Wales, Sherlock forbade any fun.

John smirked.

He had helped Molly organize the tickets, finding her in tears one evening, printing out flight schedules and folding conference agendas on the floor of the reception area. Sherlock and Mycroft had been very strict with her. Not a single mistake was to be made. No errors this time. The sad thing was that Molly wasn't even joining them. She had to hold the fort somehow. It made no sense to John. He had, for a moment, pondered the idea of asking Sherlock about letting her go, but that was ridiculous.

And so it was that the whole group of employees made their way across land and water and found themselves in the lovely villas of the Northern beauty of Wales. Their usual hotel was set about the water, with enough rooms spread out over four large, three-storey buildings. The main conference hall was next to the breakfast hall and pub. It was a scenic place, meant to bring about relaxation and awe. It rarely turned out that way. Four days of any conference was brutal. Not only were the teams away from their desks, they had to handle client enquiries by phone. Some had even brought laptops to work in the evenings or during scheduled breaks.

John was sharing with Dimmock. Their room was on the lower level, facing the water. Next door, Mike shared with Anderson, poor sod.

Next door to them were the two female designers. The rest of the teams were spread out arbitrarily. John wondered who had allocated the rooms. He was lucky he got Dimmock, really. The lad would tire himself out, hopefully.

The first day went without hitch. They all landed on time, got their luggage in order, got into the coaches and arrived in the beautiful countryside before it was even lunchtime. The opening speeches were predictable and dull. The conference room was dark and unappealing. John hated it. He couldn't even doze off, as he sat at one of the front tables, near the podium. Ugh. He also knew that one of the days would involve "team-building" where the motley crew of people would have to work together on some god-awful project. Last year had been a painting exercise, a mural. It had ended with anger and thrown pots of paint and a bruised eye or two. Some people were not good team players, after all.

John stood on the small patio allocated to his room. It was late afternoon and they'd been given a respite, told that the evening meal and festivities would be starting within an hour. It was beautiful. The weather couldn't have been more perfect. Not a single cloud marred the sky. It was warm with a soft breeze and the water flowed by, making John feel at one with nature.  
He looked down. Would have to change, he supposed. Though the dress code at the conference was more casual than normal, he would feel better once in a suit. Especially for the night's activities.  
It was the evenings these guys lived for. They got to party a little, enjoy their comrades' company and get loaded on free booze. Naturally, people took liberties. Office dalliances certainly took on a new life out here. The boys could strut their stuff and the girls got to dress up and dance for once. For guys like Mike, it was horrible. He would usually head to bed early, call his wife and kids. For the single lads, it was a different story.  
John had always enjoyed these conferences, even just for the purpose of making fun of his co-workers as they made complete arses of themselves. Last year he'd flirted heavily with Sarah, and boy, had it worked. This year, not so much.  
Sarah and he were not in that place anymore. She'd cooled off substantially. John figured as much. So this time, in Wales, he felt he might be able to not worry about the social impropriety of flirting with a colleague. He had no plans to bring a girl back to his room. Dimmock had asked if there were 'rules' on such behaviour.

'What, you mean like a code for roomies?" John had laughed.  
"I dunno," Dimmock had answered, swinging his luggage onto the single bed. "I mean, if, say, I meet a girl."  
"You know all the girls already," John scoffed.  
"Yessss," Dimmock said, flinging his clothes about the bed. "But you never know, right? Do I need to signal to you or summat? Tie on the door handle?"  
"Definitely not that," John said gravely. "This is a work conference. Try not to make it too obvious you're bringing girls back to our room."  
Dimmock flushed, realizing how stupid that sounded.  
John just sighed, "If, and only if, you somehow have a lady-friend wanting to ... Uh, pay a visit, just let me know. Talk to me. Don't let me walk in or anything." God save his eyeballs, no.  
Dimmock had nodded. "All right. Prolly won't be necessary and all, but just in case." He smiled broadly.  
John had laughed, "You never know, lad."

So yes, some folks took their time away from home to be a frivolous party session. John would have to pace himself. There was going to be three nights of drinking. He'd learnt his lesson. Vomiting all over the head of marketing in his first year, well, that'd been great. And mortifying. Not that she remembered. She was sloshed too.

Dimmock appeared on the patio, tugging a tie on. They'd both changed from travel gear. "Great view, hey?"  
John nodded and looked at his watch. "We should get going. I'm starved."  
"Right," Dimmock dashed off to grab his jacket.  
John looked out over the water. Lovely.

\---

Blimey, the rum was good. John thanked the bartender and sipped at his fresh drink. He hardly ever drank hard liquor, being more a beer man.

"Cheers," Lestrade said, appearing. He burped. "Whoops. Sorry, mate. Great bloody dinner, wasn't it? 'Mazing chef."  
John laughed, "Delicious."  
Lestrade walked over to the pub's open upper deck patio with John. Tables were spread out, with groups of colleagues laughing, drinking and enjoying themselves. The two men leaned against the railing and looked out over the countryside.

"Oh, God I'm dreading this already." Lestrade groaned quietly.

Lestrade leaned on the balcony, shoulders slumping. John barked out a laugh. "Come on then, don't let us down yet, boss!"  
Lestrade grunted and smiled. John knew exactly what was going through his head. They'd both done this enough years running. Lestrade, being a manager, was one of the principle presenters. All divisions were present, and all managers were slated to speak over the coming days. It was awful, just awful. John didn't envy the man.

  
"Stiff upper lip," John sipped his drink with a grin.

  
"Oh, John. This kind of bollocks drives me mad. All this shmarmy, chummy bullshit. Don't know why we bloody bother."

  
"Morale, I guess."

  
Lestrade eyed him, "and the only way to get everyone to stay put while management barrages them with sales crap and new budgets. Ugh."

  
John patted his boss' back. "Cheer up. Three more days."

  
"And you'd think the damn Holmeses would be here by now, you know, corraling the troops."

  
John had noticed the brothers' absence. "Arriving later?"

  
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "They're here already. Have been for days. The European divisions were brought up. Heard it was a clusterfuck, actually. Mycroft's had Sherlock in meetings all day. They'll both be raving lunatics by now."

  
John paused. "That-Oh, God, that's fucking terrible."

  
"For us all."  
John nodded gravely.

\---

Dimmock was on the bar counter. He had followed one of the operations girls up there, drink and madness driving him. John shook his head, feeling woozy himself.  
He'd just come to the bar to refill his and Lestrade's drinks. The sun had set long ago and the party nad ramped up a fair bit. Music was blaring and his colleagues were, as they say, getting down. John was jostled near the bar, but he got what he wanted before turning and squeezing his way out. He stumbled at the door when another person entered.

  
"Oops," John said, lifting his drinks. Sarah. Bugger.  
  
"No worries," she said, sidestepping him. Awkwardly. Their eyes flicked back and forth. John gave a tight smile and pushed on.  
Blimey.  
Lestrade was slumped in a chair, his rag-tag crew around him. All were completely pissed.  
John sat in his seat, handing his boss his beer.  
  
"Thanks, mate," Lestrade slurred.  
  
"So what you're saying," Sally Donovon said loudly, "Is that Martens has been looking for work? Like, is he that dumb, really?"  
  
Oh dear. They were a bunch of mouthy salespeople now. That meant they'd all be slurring business practices at one another all night. And gossiping.  
"I said nothing of the sort," Lestrade said, sipping his cold beer appreciatively.  
  
Mike leaned in from across the table. "But you would know, right? You guys used to work together. He's a bloody legend."  
  
Lestrade snorted, "Legendary my arse. You know who you should be looking out for?"  
  
"Stevens at Chelthams?" Dimmock piped up.  
  
"Holmes."  
  
Faces were made.  
"No, listen you lot," Lestrade leaned in, slamming his beer down. "Enough with the faces. You don't know how bloody lucky you have it. You keep talking about the ladder, the corporate ladder, and the best way to get up there. You keep asking about mentors and brilliant people, when you've got not one, but two in your bloody building!"  
Sally snorted derisively. Mike looked uncertain. Dimmock just looked smashed.  
  
"Those brothers built this fucking company. They didn't inherit it, or have it handed to them. Yes, they're both intolerable hardarses, but they're fucking brilliant. The fact that none of you see it makes me blazing! What the hell have you even learnt from being in my team?"  
  
John admired the sheepish looks. Maybe they didn't like the Holmes brothers, but John knew they admired Lestrade. Funny tat the man never noticed. John hid his smile behind his beer.  
  
"Yeah, easy to say, boss," Sally said acidly.  
  
Lestrade eyed her and swigged some more. "You'll learn, Donovon. You all will." He looked at John, "Well, I bloody well hope so."  
John shrugged, unperturbed.  
  
"Oh shit," Dimmock breathed suddenly. Beside him, Sally and Mike looked up. All three of them sat up and dropped their drinks on the table.  
  
"Team pow-wow, Lestrade?" Came a smooth, elegant voice. Mycroft. Shit.  
  
John sat up, but kept his beer. He looked up as Mycroft, Irene Adler and, damn, Sherlock swanned up to them.  
  
"Always," Lestrade said, not getting up. Dimmock looked like he was about to pop. The three new managers came to stand near him. Mycroft eyed them all. Irene sat down with a coy grin. "Mike, dear, would you mind getting me a gin?"  
Mike stood up hastily. "Certainly."  
  
Bollocks, John felt drunk. He probably shouldn't be, not with managers so close.  
  
"At least you all look ... relaxed," Mycroft said calmly, looking about. He stood so tall beside his brother. Both cut such clean lines in their bespoke suits. Sherlock's was a deep midnight blue and his shirt was pristine white, open at the collar. He looked dressed down somehow, yet John couldn't say why. Maybe it was the pub backgrond or the country air?  
  
"Watson?"  
  
He looked up. Mycroft had spoken.  
John's eyes flicked to Sherlock. "Uh, yes. Sorry, was thinking there."  
  
Mycroft gave that fake smile. "I see. Well, do enjoy the rest of the evening. Tomorrow's an early start." He nodded to his brother and both moved away to the bar.  
John watched Sherlock go. Damn, the man was sexy, especially when he ignored John. Why? Why? Ugh.  
  
"Beer?" John asked standing.  
  
"What?" Lestrade looked up at him, confused. "But you just got-"  
  
John slugged back his beer, emptying the bottle.  
  
"Right," Lestrade said. "Feel free, Watson."

John might, perhaps, be a little bored. It was probably not a good idea then, to follow the Holmes brothers. Or to push into the crowd at the bar, wincing over the obscene music. Sherlock didn't try to get to the bar itself. He waited just to the side, on the outer edge of the crowd. John squeezed through the obnoxious group of coworkers. Sherlock was scowling, looking down, probably texting. John pushed forward and came to stand right in front of the man, but turned, back to him. He pushed back, as though with the crowd. Sherlock grunted, annoyed. John wondered if he'd looked up yet.  
He waited, the crowd moving about, pushing them further to the edge of the room.  
  
"Watson," came that gravelly, sinfully deep voice in his ear. Oh God, yes. "Really?"  
  
John shivered. He moved back, pressing Sherlock into the wall. Nobody noticed, the crowd still jostling.  
  
The VP let out a breath of air. John rubbed his arse against that warmth. He felt long fingers grab onto his hip.  
  
"Watson," Sherlock growled into his ear.  
  
"You're in a grouchy mood," John said, face forward.  
  
Sherlock's other hand appeared on John's other hip. He felt the man behind him press forward. Jesus.  
"You want attention, I see." Sherlock purred, barely audible above the music. God, this was bad. Anyone could look over, pay a little more attention, and see the VP pressed up against a sales exec.  
  
"No," John said firmly.  
  
"Hmm, your amorous attitude begs to differ."  
  
John snorted. "Whatever. I'm not horny, Sherlock."  
  
That made the Holmes pause. Confused? Probably not. He couldn't very well grab John's crotch now, could he? Oh God, would he?  
John pushed away from him, arse rubbing that hardness Sherlock was, however, sporting.  
  
"I came to say hello," John said loudly, and without even looking at Sherlock, walked right out, ignoring his need for beer.

\---

The group of salespeople continued their perverse endeavour of getting trashed. John spent most of his time with Lestrade, laughing at the man's tales. He really was very good company. The two of them were at the railing, looking out over the dark world. Dimmock was lolling about, his words slurred as he tried to chat up one of the designers. John kept an eye on his roommate. He didn't want to have to pull the man out of the water later.  
  
"Ah, the devil walks among us," Lestrade crowed happily. He lifted his beer in greeting.  
  
John looked up. Ah.  
Sherlock had appeared, his gaze piercing but calm. Those quicksilver eyes hovered on John before flicking away.  
John raised a brow in amusement.  
  
"I take it you are ready for your early morning presentation," Sherlock said, eyeing Lestrade. "The stench of alcohol isn't very appealing at this hour, so I assume you know it will be worse in the morning?"  
  
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Jesus, why remind me? Typical you put me first, eh? Sadistic bastard."  
  
John chuckled. Sherlock's gaze slid his way again. John grinned. Sherlock's eyes became slits, head tilting, analyzing.  _That's right_ , John thought. _Analyze away, pretty boy_.  
Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "You're letting your team run wild. Be sure they all turn up on time. I don't want a green face in the house."  
  
"You tell them," Lestrade said, "Nothing like the fear of God to get this lot into bed early."  
  
John snorted quietly to himself before covering it with his beer.  
"Well, if that's the case. What drink do you recommend?" Sherlock asked.  
  
Lestrade blinked, "You don't drink."  
  
Sherlock smiled then, devilish and dangerous. Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. "Right. Okay, I'll get you something strong."  
  
John watched the man go, head shaking. He turned back to Sherlock, who stood, hands in pant pockets.  
"Not subtle, are you?"  
  
Sherlock moved closer, arms coming to rest n the railing. "You," he bowed his head, "Are tenacious."  
  
John rolled his eyes.  
  
"Tell me, Watson," Sherlock began, "Why are you here, with these imbeciles, when you could be elsewhere, with your hands down my trousers?"  
  
John gulped back his beer. Fuck. He'd pushed him to this, really.  
  
"That is your goal, naturally. With such a greeting, and such ... comments."  
  
John tried not to look over. Or answer. Sherlock leaned in, his breath ghosting over John's ear.  
"I have a room to myself, you know. Benefits of being vice president."  
  
John shivered, "Yes, well," he cleared his throat. "I have a roommate. It wouldn't be good if I didn't show up." Sherlock turned, his back to the railing. He could watch the activities from this point. John twitched when he felt a warm palm slide across his stomach. "Sherlock," he breathed in warning. "People."  
  
"Mm, good observation."  
  
John grit his teeth. "Stop it. You just show up and want in my pants already? We're not even ... This isn't-"  
  
Sherlock's fingers stroked across his belly. "I haven't seen you in over a month. Hong Kong, Kyoto, Perth. Why does that surprise you?" He murmured.  
  
John rolled his beer bottle between his fingers. He said nothing.  
  
He felt Sherlock's gaze on him. "You look handsome tonight, Watson."  
  
That made John look over. "What? Are you insane? Are you ill?"  
  
Sherlock smirked. "You do. Not used to a compliment, I see."  
  
"Ugh," John rolled his eyes, "You don't say things like that unless you want something."  
  
Sherlock growled, actually growled, soft and deep. Damnit.  
"Ever the telepath."  
  
"Oi! No upsetting my team!" Lestrade strode over. He glared at Sherlock, handing him a drink. "Holmes, really. Don't piss my men off. It's been a lovely night, he doesn't need you harping on him."  
  
John didn't turn. He couldn't. Not with Sherlock's palm firmly pressed to his groin. He could barely breathe.  
  
"Lestrade, I am simply commending Watson on his professional attire. Something you might want to talk to the rest of your 'men' about." He nodded his head towards Sally, whose skirt was rather short this evening.  
  
"Oh, leave off, Holmes," Lestrade moaned.  
  
John flinched. The hand was rubbing, ever so gently, stirring up the heat in his gut. Jesus Christ, the man was insane.  
  
"As you wish," Sherlock mumured, hand slipping away. John wanted to follow. Oh no, but Sherlock was gone. Lestrade grumbled something about overbearing bastards, but John couldn't hear him. He was on fire and it was all that bloody man's fault!

\---

At breakfast, Dimmock slid a seat beside Sarah.  
  
"Oh dear," she murmured, "Rough night, love?"  
  
Dimmock made a face. He looked green. "Went a little overboard, I think."  
  
Mike chuckled across the table. "Great. You'll love the next eight hours of presentations, then. Blisteringly engaging."  
  
Sarah leaned across conspiratorially, "Seen Lestrade yet? He looks no better."  
  
Dimmock frowned. Ugh, the food looked so unappetizing, he thought he might lose whatever was left in his stomach.  
  
"How's John?" Mike asked. "He took you back to your room last night. Good old him."  
  
Dimmock looked up, "Did he? Blimey. I must have been a mess. Should thank him, I suppose."  
  
"He feeling okay?" Mike comtinued.  
  
Dimmock nodded. "Yeah, he's fine. When I left he was still on his run. Bloody madman, still jogging out here."  
  
"Oh he doesn't want to be late," Sarah murmured. "His highness will have his guts for garters."  
  
Mike chuckled, "Aye, that he will."

\---

"Unh!" John grunted, fingers tugging on the railings of the wooden headboard. Wincing, he tried to breathe. Fuck.  
  
Sherlock slammed into him again, John's knees pinned open. John's back slid against the sheets. "Uh!" Sherlock breathed, rolling his hips into John languidly, like a dancer. John shuddered and licked his lips, eyes heavy.  
  
Sherlock had him pinned, body flush, sweat-slicked and hot against him. Sherlock's cock moved inside him, pressing, throbbing.  
  
"Jesus, Sherlock," John gasped, pushing at the headboard so he could feel closer. Sherlock rumbled in his ear, wet tongue laving at his neck. With another flick of his hips, he had John moaning louder.  
  
"Beautiful," Sherlock growled, nipping at John.  
  
"Don't bite," John breathed, "No marks."  
  
Sherlock pulled his head away to glare into John's eyes. "I bite where and when I want, Watson."  
  
John tried to scowl, but it melted as Sherlock pulled out, smooth and slick, driving himself home again.  
  
"God!" John breathed, gritting his teeth. He'd just gone out for a run, that was all. Just a simple morning jog in the Welsh countryside. He knew he shouldn't have jogged past the managers' hotel building. Or he might not have been stopped by the vision of Sherlock leaning against his patio door in nothing but his pyjama bottoms and a cigarette between his lips.  
  
"Anyone could have seen you," John breathed, releasing the headboard so he could run his fingers over Sherlock's lean back. His skin!  
  
"Nobody would be about," Sherlock breathed, licking John's shoulder. "Only unsuspecting joggers, of course."  
  
"No, I mean," John shuddered mightily as Sherlock pressed into that place inside him. The place that made his toes curl. "Anyone could, could see you. Like that."  
  
He saw Sherlock half naked. He saw Sherlock in his pyjamas, in his underwear. Nobody else should have the chance, damnit!  
  
"Such a change in attitude this morning," Sherlock purred, kissing John with those plush, pink lips.  
  
"Mmmmh!" John moaned.  
  
"Just last night you wanted nothing to do with me. And now," he thrust into John again, heart galloping. "Now we're going to be late. Everyone's already seated, done with breakfast, you know. They'll be wondering where we are. Why we aren't up and about. Maybe they'll put two and two. What do you say to that, Watson? Hmmm?"  
  
John's breath came hard and fast. Sherlock lifted himself to his knees, hands going to the headboard. John lay back, eyes dazed, hands limp. Gorgeous creature, really.  
"Mycroft's on stage right now, greeting everyone," Sherlock started slow, building up the pressure as his cock slid in and out of John's welcoming warmth. He stared into John's wide blue eyes. "Lestrade will be with him, as well as the other managers." John moaned as Sherlock sped up. "They'll notice one seat, no, two. Where is Watson, they'll say." Sherlock grit his teeth as his hips snapped forward, making John's eyes roll back. He pulled out. Snapped forward again and again. "Watson is late. Where could he be?"  
John's body was shunted in the moves, so he grabbed at Sherlock's hips, arse. His legs wrapped around slim hips.  
Over and over, Sherlock slammed into him. The headboard banged against the wall repeatedly. John was coming undone. His cock leaked profusely over his stomach. Sherlock kept going.  
  
"Unh," John breathed, "F-fuck me," he bit out. "Harder."  
  
Sherlock grinned and complied. The slapping sound of hips hitting thigh resounded across the room. John could barely see straight. Again. Again. Oh God, again!  
"Uuuh, uh!" He whined, feeling the heat in his balls, the swelling. "Sherlock!" He squeaked, voice going.  
  
Sherlock's movements were losing their rhythm. He was so close, oh God, it was bliss. With John spread out like this, all wanton lust and sexually wound, it was enough to drive him mad. His lips slammed into John's, tongue swirling, eating John up. Even as his climax hit, he could feel John spurting between them, hips shaking, fingers gouging into his arse. Sherlock's release was hot and blinding and oh, so fucking beautiful.  
He quickly let go of the headboard and slid a hand between them. He knew John liked this. He grabbed at John's balls and squeezed. They were tight against his body and John almost wailed, his mouth thankfully filled with Sherlock's tongue.  
God almighty.

John was still shivering, moments later. Sherlock laid across him, feeling the minute quivering, spasmic muscles. Oh yes, he'd done well. It wasn't often that he could reduce John Watson down to this.  
  
Sherlock continued to kiss John, always enamoured by the older man's mouth and tongue. Intoxicating, really.  
  
"I-I," John barely said. "We-we-"  
  
Sherlock chuckled, "Indeed."  
  
John took a moment longer to get his head straight.  
  
Christ almighty. He was wrapped about the vice president, his running gear strewn about the room, his colleagues already waiting in the damned conference hall. Plus he still had a soft condom-covered cock embedded in his arse, the owner of which was not making any plan to move anytime soon. They were going to be so fucking late!

\---


	4. Chapter 4

"If you lot don't leave soon, you'll be late!" Sally growled as she stormed past their cubicle. Mike swore and stood, still bent over his keyboard, shutting down. John just stabbed faster at his own keys.

"Taxi?" Dimmock came into view at the entrance to their cubicle. He was adjusting his fresh tie, trying in vain to make his day outfit into a night one. 

"Please," said Mike, huffing. "These bloody events, always rushed."

 

John just nodded, still trying to do calculations in his head.

"You coming, John?" Dimmock asked, mobile to his ear. "Yes, hello," he said, looking up, "yes, Dimmock. Yes. Yes. Oh, ok. Thank you." He tapped his mobile and shook his head. "Amazing technology. Remember everything, these cab companies."

Mike stood and threw on his long trenchcoat, "Right, best be off."

"Come on, John!" Dimmock hissed, "Everyone else has left. We can't be the late buggers."

 

John huffed, "We can miss the pre-cocktail drinks, make it there for the ceremony. Nobody will be the wiser."

"We already skipped them," Mike said sharply, "No one wanted to schmooze."

John looked up then at his colleagues' expectant faces. "Really?"

"Sorry, mate. Everyone had the same idea, I guess."

"Balls," John hissed and logged out. He grabbed his coat and followed the other two out.

 

*---*

 

Tonight was a long time coming. H&H was on the very short, elite list of the year's most successful, most progressive companies in the country. The award show was a culmination of a year's work with members of a few corporations labelled and nominated for awards. H&H was in the running for a couple awards. It was a fancy affair, with hundreds of guests at one of the most lavish centres in all of London. The winter chill kept the coat-check lads busy and yet didn't seem to be limiting the ladies' attire. John saw more than a few long gowns and sequinned shoulders on exquisit silken affairs.

 

His fellow H&H employees had done their best to shine up appropriately. Though, really, what was their best wasn't the same as the corporate bigwigs' best. John stood with Mike and Dimmock, champagne in hand. The hors d'oeuvres were strangely small but crazy delicious. They'd managed to sample as many as possible, Dimmock almost running the waiters down every time one appeared. There were a lot of people. The first round of awards had gone down well. The H&H table was fairly close to the stage, surrounded by more tables of other major firms. These were big players. John recognized a face or two. These firms had more than one table, with clients too. H&H had splurged. Not. Only the managers and the national London Team were invited. John had only found out the day before that they'd be going. Dimmock had fairly pirouetted around their desks with glee.

 

"We're super important!" He whispered to John and Mike. "We're with the major winners."

John chuckled.

Mike shook his head, "You mean, they couldn't get any important clients on such short notice. High profile clients. So we are seat fillers, mate."

 

Dimmock squinted at him. "But Anderson's not invited. We are more important than him."

John laughed, "He's a knob, nobody wants him anywhere."

"Table seats ten." Mike said into his champagne, clearly wishing it were gin. "Management had to fill what seats they could."

Dimmock nodded, "Ah. So that's why Molly's here."

 

"Is she?" John raised a brow.

Mike looked up and nodded, eyes directing. "Can't miss her."

John turned. He smiled. Molly was giggling with Sarah as a couple tall, besuited men chatted them up. She was wearing a long, black dress with floaty, off-the-shoulder sleeves. Sarah was clad in a soft, emerald green affair. They looked beyond dolled up.

John looked down at his own black suit, black shirt and black silk tie. He smirked. "Not much choice for the blokes." He chuckled.

"Well, there are choices," Mike added, "but we'd look terrible in heels."

"And strapless gowns would make us look butch," John said, grinning.

Dimmock snorted into his drink. The three of them giggled like schoolkids.

 

"Oh!" Dimmock choked suddenly. "Look! It's Burgess!"

John and Mike turned. "Blimey," Mike said, "So it is." He looked at John, who frowned. "Not on our guest list, was he?"

John thought, watching the large man a few feet away. "No. I heard he'd made an excuse or something."

"Ah," Mike said.

Dimmock blinked. "Well, aren't we going to talk to him? One of our biggest clients?"

"No," John said, gears clicking in his skull. "No. I think we can wait."

"For what?" Dimmock asked.

 

"Think of it this way, lad," Mike said, nudging his glasses up his nose. "One of our most prolific clients turned down an appearance at our table. It would do H&H well to have someone like him sitting with us. Client says he's busy, but shows up anyway. But with who?"

Dimmock blinked, "Ah, um, another firm?"

 

"Exactly," Mike sipped at his drink.

"Ouch," Dimmock breathed. "You think he's moving his business elsewhere?"

"Always possible," John said calmly. He knew not to jump to conclusions. He did, however, know that turning a Holmes down with a lie would never be a good move.

The lights flickered.

"Oop, back we go," Mike dropped his glass off on a passing waiter's tray.

John looked about the room. So many people, so much wealth. Hmmm.

 

*---*

 

The members of H&H were all seated at the table. John glanced across the table just as the lights dimmed. There was an open seat beside Mycroft. The senior Holmes was not watching the proceedings. He was typing on his phone. The stage lighting lit up the annoyed look on his features. He was not impressed.

John sighed, looking at the empty seat again.

 

The presenters on stage were two London TV personalities, ready with silly quips and random rapport about industries they had no clue about. The amenable guests clapped at their futile attempts at humour. John just settled in.

 

As the minutes dragged on, awards were given out and stupid CEOs with big heads gave lame speeches. Videos and presentations flashed on the massive screens around the room.

Their category was coming up soon.

John glanced at the empty seat.

 

He needed to pee.

Feeling a tad obvious, he bent low and sneaked off. Lestrade eyed his leaving. That felt like a threat along the lines of 'get your arse back here in time, or I slit your throat.'

John was quick. He checked his hair. Not too bad. It was slicked properly, all in order and his suit was perfect. Those morning runs were great at keeping him trim.

 

He hustled back to the dark, large ballroom. He carefully skirted around the many tables, doing his best to seem inconspicuous.

He slipped into his seat. His eyes flicked towards the seat beside Mycroft. He blinked. Sarah was sitting there.

John frowned. What the...?

A hand slid across his thigh, down towards his knee beneath the white tablecloth. John froze.

He looked to his right only to find the person connected to the hand.

Holy shit. Sherlock lounged beside him in the spot Dimmock had held. Bloody bugger must have shifted everyone. Subtle.

Sherlock was gazing at the stage, dark curls highlighted by the blue lights.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes drifting to look at John askance.

 

John huffed, annoyed. Sherlock smirked and turned back to the stage.

John pushed those long fingers away, their warmth streaking over his trousers.

He knew the younger Holmes would show (how could he not) but how inappropriately late could the man be?

"You almost missed the award," John hissed.

 

Mycroft glanced up.

John looked at the stage.

 

Their award was up. H&H was up against some big guns. This award would definitely put them in the limelight. All the financial journals would be writing up articles, setting up interviews. This would mean business. More business for H&H. And to John at least it would mean the teams would get some recognition. The Holmes brothers would be recognized too. Not that Sherlock needed any more news coverage. He was terrible in interviews.

 

John had a couple magazine pages pinned up at his desk that the team had laughed over. Not at Sherlock, mind you, just at the cutting way he could tear interviewers apart. One feisty reporter had thought it clever to probe into the Holmes method of procuring clients. Poaching came up, as did illegal maneouvring. Sherlock tore that down within seconds. The reporter himself hadn't submitted the article. Instead, a rival paper picked up the copies of the interview, bought it off the original magazine and published it anyway. Needless to say, that reporter was out of work.

 

The presenters on stage ran through the list of contenders. John clapped when H&H was mentioned, along with his colleagues. 

"Do you want to win?" Came Sherlock's whisper.

John looked up at him. Those pale blue eye looked mischievous.

"Of course," John answered.

"You want me to win, don't you?"

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock smirked. "Yes, I want you and your massive ego to win."

Sherlock grinned just as the winner was announced. The H&H table erupted in cheers and clapping. John sighed as Sherlock stood, along with his brother. The two Holmeses went up to get their award. Neither said a word of speech, which made John sigh. Now was not the time to give Sherlock access to a microphone.

 

Regardless, John clapped.

 

*--*

 

"Look at this thing," Dimmock crowed happily. The ceremony was over and the guests were free to mingle, dance and drink themselves stupid.

John chuckled as the younger exec waved the company's new award about. He put out a hand and Dimmock passed it over.

He looked at the polished glass that had been crafted into the shape of a clenched fist. Not at all masculine or domineering. Weird.

"Subtle, isn't it?" Came a deep voice at his shoulder.

"Good job, sir!" Dimmock crowed, glass raised.

 

Sherlock, beside John, raised a brow and deigned to smirk. Sarah tugged Dimmock's arm down.

John handed the heavy award to Sherlock. The Holmes balanced it in his hand, weighing. "Mmm," he murred.

"Champagne?" John grabbed a glass off a passing waiter. Sherlock took the glass absently. He looked at John. 

 

"Yes, yes, good work. You won." John sighed.

The others got distracted by a passing caviar tray and scrambled.

John saw how Sherlock analyzed the glass award. "It's not even crystal, is it?" John asked.

"Hardly," Sherlock grunted. He dropped it onto a table. John's brows shot up.

"Oi, don't lose it!"

 

Sherlock turned, sipping his champagne, eyes scanning over the rim. "Immaterial," he rumbled.

"So... You're not keeping it?"

Sherlock looked down at him. "It's not about the cheaply made desk ornament."

"But-"

"Watson, do you intend on being tediously boring all night?"

John made a face and tugged at his suit jacket. Sherlock noticed. His eyes roamed over John appreciatively.

"Distracting," he murmured.

"I don't know what you mean," John said calmly.

"Oh, I think you do."

John looked past Sherlock. "Incoming," he murmured, making a swift exit. Sherlock turned as he went, only to come face-to-face with Mycroft.

"I asked you to be punctual, Sherlock. What do you call this?"

John smirked and kept walking.

 

*--*

 

The team was gathered near the massive balcony, cheering their good fortune. 

"To H&H," Lestrade lifted his glass.

"To us," Sarah added. Lestrade tilted his head in acquiescence. 

"That too."

 

John raised his glass and swigged back more champagne. The bubbly drinks were definitely taking effect. The last hour had been a bit more schmoozy than he liked, but he'd managed to talk to a few notable people in the room. Ex-colleagues were about too, which was always fun. John knew a lot of folks in the business, and he was lucky enough to not have any burnt bridges in his past.

 

Mike had managed to get a potential client's contact details. Seemed a few folks were scoping out the potential here.

"Not too shabby," John said.

 

"Amazing how people open up once I mention where and for whom I work," Mike grinned.

A giggle made them look up. Molly was well into her drink. John smiled.

"Nice to see her with us," he uttered.

Mike shrugged, "Don't pretend you aren't surprised."

"Well, yes," John said. Molly wasn't a part of the sales teams, so for her to be here was quite a moment for her. John had noticed how she'd squirmed around Sherlock earlier. The git had evaded her congratulatory words. So mean, that Holmes.

"Anderson must have screwed up to not be invited," Mike commented. "Donovon too."

John didn't wonder for a second that they had been excluded out of pure malice. Sherlock knew what would infuriate anyone. Must be his doing.

 

"Sarah's looking rather ... Lovely tonight as well," Mike said.

John shrugged. "Doesn't she always?"

 

Mike eyed him warily. Probably suspected a lot more than the rest.

Funny that that relationship was long gone, long out of date. It was end of year time and John hadn't spent more than ten minutes alone with her since the awkward long weekend issue.

That was so long ago...

At least no one suspected anything between John and Sherlock. Heavens, no. How ridiculous would that appear? It would probably give Mike a coronary. Make Dimmock choke on his shrimp cocktail.

No, ludicrous. Which is what made it seem so unreal sometimes.

John sipped at his drink. Not that he and Sherlock had progressed beyond random fucking. It was good. Weird and startling, but good. John expected nothing, thankfully.

Speak of the devil.

Sherlock was walking over, his face a thundercloud. 

 

"Er," Mike gulped back his drink at the VP's face. He fled, the bastard.

John scowled at his colleague's back.

"Insufferable," Sherlock grunted, coming to stand with John, eyes skipping about the room. "Why do people insist on flattery? Can they not see how I look through it all?"

John couldn't help smiling. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, aren't you proud of your company's success? How brilliant you must be as head of such a successful firm." He cooed cheekily.

Sherlock scowled down at him.

 

The taller man was at least dressed appropriately. Black suit, deep blue shirt (the one with the very faint pinstripes), black tie and neatly coiffed curls. His hair was just gorgeous. How those curls could be tamed... 

"Teasing will do you no better," Sherlock growled, gazing into John's dark blue eyes.

John actually grinned. "All right. I actually have something to cheer you up."

Sherlock's brow rose infitesimally. "Oh?"

 

John lifted his chin, indicating past Sherlock. "Look who we have."

Sherlock turned slowly, eyes scanning. John saw his eyes squint. Bingo.

Sherlock turned back to John, eyes aglow. "How ... Interesting. Good eyes, Watson."

"Burgess," John said, sipping his drink some more before handing it to a waiter. "Thought he was busy tonight?"

"Indeed," Sherlock murmured. John could almost hear the cogs clicking and whirring in that magnificent head. The taller man looked at John, his smile transforming into one of childlike glee. "Shall we?"

He waved his arm out in an arc, indicating John lead the way.

"Oh, hell yes."

 

*--*

 

"Did you hear?" Sarah whispered desperately as she appeared beside Dimmock.

"Uh, yeah," Dimmock said, glancing at Molly and Mike.

"Holmes tore into Burgess! Burgess! It was ... crazy!" Sarah cried, eyes wide with horror.

Mike let out a puff of air, "I tell you what, that maniac has balls of steel."

"Can't believe he cornered our biggest client."

"Apparently questioned his association with the Booth Group. Like he knew they were planning to shift business." Dimmock added. "Was that for real?"

Sarah nodded wildly. "Also, he questioned the financial viability of Burgess' latest product. Said something about unverifiable tampering and medical fixing. Like somone was being paid off."

"Holy hell," Mike breathed. "We've lost a client. Just like that."

"But John was there!" Sarah cried, "it's his bloody client! Why would he let Holmes, the nutter, near him?"

"John was there?" Dimmock frowned.

"How the hell does Holmes know this shit? He's got hands in everything!" Mike was outraged.

"Mycroft stepped in, you know," Sarah whispered. "Clarified some shit about underhanded business practices Burgess was into. Burgess was, honestly, red as a tomato. I couldn't tell if it was rage or embarrassment. The man didn't get a word in edgewise."

The three sales execs breathed out heavily. Molly just smiled awkwardly. "So, Sherlock, Mr Holmes, he caught a client doing something wrong?"

Mike rubbed at his eyes, "No, Molly, dear girl. Our Prince of Darkness saw a client here on behalf of another firm. Booth Group, to be sure. That would make H&H look bad, no clients at an event like this. Bet that rankled well with the brothers. What you just heard was the public evisceration of a notable businessman with hundreds of contacts who have now heard circumstantial nonsense spouted by two of the award-winning Holmes brothers, whose reputations are terribly untarnished. In comparison to them, Burgess will be lucky to have any of his associates working with him come the new year."

"Nobody wants to be seen colluding with any underhanded, or illegal bullshit," Dimmock added.

Molly's mouth made a perfect 'O'.

"Yeah," Sarah said.

 

*--*

 

"That," John breathed, "Was amazing."

Sherlock smirked and tugged at John's elbow, leading them both around the massive centre, to the ornate gardens out back where no guests were allowed.

It was dark and fucking cold.

John shivered.

Sherlock stopped inside the entrance of a tall shrubbery maze.

"You are joking," John said.

"Joking?" Sherlock said, his deep voice rumbling in the absolute silence.

"We are not shagging out here in the fucking winter cold," John said.

"Shagging?" Sherlock came closer, arms slipping around John's waist. "Snogging?"

John frowned, "You want to snog? Here? Really?"

"You liked me back there," Sherlock rumbled into John's neck. "You like to watch me tear imbeciles apart."

John shuddered. Fuck.

"You are beyond stupid," he growled.

"You are not disagreeing," Sherlock murmured, lips trailing over John's jaw. "Give me my prize."

John rolled his eyes, "You did all that for a snog?"

Sherlock lipped at John's lips. "Not just a snog."

"You are ridiculous, boss."

Sherlock stopped, pulled back and scowled.

John tugged at the taller man's lapels. "Here's what you get: one very simple, chaste snog and then we go make nice, chat to some people, get a few drinks,"

Sherlock growled in disagreement.

John cocked a brow at his annoyance, "then we can head back to your place, where the heating and duvet can keep us company."

Sherlock thought about that. "Chaste?" He countered.

"That's all you get out here," John retaliated.

Sherlock humphed. John took it as agreement.

 

*--*

 

After a very unchaste, almost out of control kiss, John and Sherlock faked their way through the remainder of the evening. They made nice, met a few more people, congratulated the team again and again for aiding in the company's win and slipped out just after midnight.

 

The cab ride back was quiet, John's head woozy from the champagne. Sherlock fared no better.

It was very rare for the Holmes to drink.

 

John fished out Sherlock's key to get them into the swanky building. He shoved the taller man into the flat, still amazed at how pristine the rooms looked. It was weird.

Sherlock dragged John to his room and into his bed.

John fell onto the bed, arms splayed, feeling tired but happy.

"You totally destroyed my client." He murmured.

Sherlock clambered atop him, jacket and tie somehow gone already.

"Going to have to get out there, Watson. Hunt down a replacement or two."

John groaned, "You make it sound so easy."

Sherlock ran his hands over John's trousers. John figured he was just getting to business, until his hips were tilted aside and a hand delved into his pocket. "Hey-" he cried.

Sherlock's hand appeared, a fan of business cards spread between his long digits.

John blinked, "Where-?"

Sherlock smirked and flicked them over his shoulder. "New possibilities. You'll be calling them all up tomorrow."

John just gaped. When had he hidden those on John? "You'll hold me to that, won't you?"

"Mmmmmm," Sherlock hummed, setting to work on John's shirt. He stripped the dark shirt off and threw away the tie as well. John shivered.

A warm tongue lapped at his nipple and John yelped. Sherlock ignored him and continued on his mission.

"We have work tomorrow," John gasped, hands going to the dark head of hair.

"Today," Sherlock countered. "And I have a flight to Cardiff at two. Gone for two weeks."

John groaned. "You're telling me now so you can have your way."

"Of course," Sherlock purred. "I always get my way."

John sighed. "Two weeks?"

"Better make this memorable, Watson," Sherlock said.

John shoved the taller man, flipping them. He stared down at that smarmy face.

"Better be efficient, then," he said gravely.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much smut, apologies. I really wanted to write this, though. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexytimes ahead!

The meeting was not going well.

Lestrade had left the room, claiming he had a call to make, while John tried to keep his cool. Running off at the mouth wouldn't help at this venture.

 

"Mister Reid, my understanding is that this contract requires, before we move on with new contracts, that your company pays-" he said as calmly as possible. The client, a Mr Michael Reid, stood up, slamming both hands on the dark wood table. The office was large, overwhelmingly so, showcasing the sheer expensive calibre of such a prominent client. They'd been in the room for three hours already. The meeting had started off well, with John laying out the plans he'd drawn up for the next campaign but had seriously devolved the minute the topic of due payments came up.

"No, you listen here, you snivelling little snake," Reid spat. "You work for me. I pay you to get my work done and processed. My contributions to your company far exceed any other possible rat-arsed client you have on the books. Don't sit there begging and whining about bills owed. You did not deliver on your promise. You were late, my company's hard-earned and high paying time has been wasted because your team blundered about for days before letting me know the work would go out after it was slated to hit the streets."

"I understand, sir," John began.

"Have I finished speaking? Do you always interrupt? I am going to finish, and you're going to sit there and wait until I'm done. Do you understand?"

John clenched his fists under the table. He stared straight back at the tall, middle-aged man. 

"Your team failed. I am under no illusion that you don't require payment. God only knows how you manage to function at all with the bastards you have running that place. What I do know, is that my work was late. I do not pay when my work is delivered late. You can take your latest fucking bill and shove it up your arse."

This was not working out at all. Fuck.

John was told not to lose this client. They paid in the millions for H&H's services and losing them would be a tough blow to bear, hence John's boss appearing at the meeting. Lestrade felt it necessary to be there to smooth this all out.

The fact the millionaire bastard had yet to pay a single bill seemed to be beyond John's superiors. He'd been hounding accounts and finance about it for months. It was getting fucking terrible. Now to show up unprepared for a battle of wills ... well.

"Mr Reid, your contract with H&H still stands, whether you acknowledge it or not. Payment is still due. I have apologized already about the late processing of the last campaign, but your company was given an extra two weeks to make up for-"

"Bullshit," the taller man snapped. "You can't come in here and ask for more money. You don't even bloody well deserve it."

 

John might have fared better in all of this, had the arrogant sod's handlers not been in the room too. His assistant, head of marketing and finance director were sat quietly at the other end of the table, clearly terrified of speaking. This public humiliation was all devised for John. It was sickening. Lucy, the assistant, had wide blue eyes and they flicked to John every now and then. In horror or pity, John would never know. 

 

The sound of a door creaking open made them all look up.

Lestrade was grim as he slipped his mobile back into his pocket. "Right, he's downstairs. I'm terribly sorry Mr Reid about all this. Trust me, it will all be sorted out. I'll have my team figure out the renumeration and -"

Reid snarled, then smirked acidly. Here was a man used to getting his own way. A bully in all respects. Probably was how he managed to keep his company afloat, terrorising all who worked with him. Not the best reputation to have, but clearly effective in the long run.

"I'll be reconsidering doing business with you lot in the future," the man snapped, standing upright. He was lean, wore impeccably expensive clothing and gelled his greying hair like some sort of gigolo. Well, that's what John thought. Even the man's dark-rimmed spectacles were name brand. A show-off.

"Let's not jump the gun just yet," Lestrade said easily, hands coming up. "Emotions run high, we don't want to jeopardise-"

"Keep your sentiments to yourself," Reid said, "I didn't come to this meeting to have my finances combed over."

A sound from outside made the others look up. Murmuring. Someone was at reception, talking to the girl out front. A dark shadow passed over the frosted glass and the door opened. The young pretty thing from reception leaned in, nodded and opened the door wider.

"A Mister Holmes to see you, sir," she breathed, clearly flustered.

John's blood froze. Oh, God, no.

Sherlock bloody Holmes came into the room, all tall grace and with a whirl of commanding air about him. The receptionist blinked up at his passing figure, clearly entranced. John scowled.

Once the door was shut, Sherlock made his way around the table and shook hands with Reid. 

"Holmes," Reid said sharply, clearly not understanding why he was here. John wondered the same damn thing and looked over at Lestrade who just inhaled deeply and shook his head at John.

Reinforcements. Bloody fuck fuck.

"Reid," Sherlock intoned, his deep voice a dull rumble. "Been a while." The dark-haired man walked around the other end of the table to greet his handlers. They all looked terrified.

The politeness didn't faze John.

"Not that I don't mind seeing you, Holmes, but what the bloody hell are you doing here?" Reid had furrowed brows. John wagered that as much as these two had done business in the past, the older man didn't trust the Holmes one jot. Sherlock, playing the business partner, had a passive expression. Lord help them all.

Sherlock didn't look at John. In fact, he seemed to be purposely ignoring him.

"I was called in, as this meeting seemed to be teetering on a breaking point." Sherlock now stood between John and Lestrade, opposite the table from Reid. The two squared off.

Lestrade sighed.

"Not necessary," Reid said sharply. "Your buffoons have made themselves clear. I'm actually in the process of reviewing our future with H&H. Seems the time has come to, perhaps, move our business elsewhere. No hard feeling, chum."

"Oh, none at all," Sherlock said, looking the man up and down. John could see those sharp blue eyes skating over every inch of the man. "I do think it may be time to part ways. After all, a searing court battle won't look very good in the eye of investors. No, I think it best to sever ties after all."

Reid laughed loudly, "Oh, you still have that humourless charm, Holmes. Ever the bullshitter."

Sherlock cocked a brow. "Oh, Reid, I am not joking, though if I were, I'd take a stab at your ineffectual efforts to fix your waning marriage, not at the very real option of suing your arse for breach of contract."

Whoa, double stab to the ego.

Reid's face went red and he clenched his fingers into tight fists. Sherlock's eyes flicked down to his hands. He smiled that lopsided bitch of a smile. The smile of the victor.

Reid recognized it and shook himself. Clearly he'd had more than a few battle of wills with Sherlock.

"Such distasteful words, Holmes. Below even you."

Sherlock raised both brows in mock interest. "Oh? The part about your being sued or the part about your wife's intentions of separating? Or perhaps the part about your physician prescribing you sexual aids to combat your waning ... ah ... prowess? Word is you've contracted one too many unsightly rashes. Escorts, everyone said, but we know better, don't we, Michael?"

He grinned.

Reid looked murderous. Lestrade's jaw had dropped, as had Reid's head of finance's. bloody hell on wheels, this was getting ugly. Fast.

"You lying piece of shit," Reid hissed, "You dare come in here and insult my wife-"

"You, Reid. Not your wife. Amelia is perfectly amenable most days."

"You bastard," Reid raised a finger and jabbed it in Sherlock's direction. "You can't start spouting lies and expect others to believe you. It's a disgrace. All over unpaid bills? Bloody ridiculous."

"Cover it as much as you like, Reid," Sherlock said, his voice calm, "but going by the state of your personal affairs, I don't have any illusions as to the well-being of this company. Not for the next year, at least. Let's say, five months. Your annual report is due then, isn't it? Should be a galloping read."

The finance director glanced at the head of marketing. They both were pale.

"Ignore him!" Reid bellowed. "He's making grievous accusations against my person and I won't stand for it!"

Sherlock tutted. "Calm down, Reid. We're done here, aren't we?" He looked at Lestrade, who just swallowed. "You can expect word from our lawyers in the morning," Sherlock mused. "They've already drawn up the papers. Just need a bit of reviewing, you know, before the media gets their hands on it."

"Now you're really joking," Reid hissed, leaning forward, hands on the table. 

"I never joke about business," Sherlock responded.

"It won't work," Reid snapped. "Your stupid sales people fucked up. They delivered late. They were in breach of contract, not me."

John felt his face pale.

"You owe in excess of four point three million pounds to H&H," Sherlock said, voice soft now. Dangerous. "Regardless of my team's failure to present your offering on time, you are in breach of not one, but three prior agreements. God only knows why no one told me sooner. You've had it easy for long enough."

Reid snarled and his assistant jumped. 

"Your company underdelivers and overpromises. Pathetic excuse for an organization." He suddenly jabbed his finger in John's direction. "He's already apologized. He knows he fucked up."

Sherlock didn't look at John. He just frowned darkly.

"We'll see ourselves out," Sherlock said. "Lestrade, Watson."

John stood quickly and gathered his things, awkwardly nodding his good-byes. Lestrade and Sherlock waited for him at the elevators. 

Silence ensued all the way to the cab downstairs.

"Er," Lestrade began.

"Shut it," Sherlock snapped, opening the door to the cab he hailed. "Take another one."

And with a slam of the car door, that was that.

John and Lestrade just stood on the pavement and watched the black car slide back into traffic.

"We are so fucked," John whispered.

"That we are," Lestrade agreed.

 

-*-

 

The two men arrived back at the office just after lunch. Sherlock was locked up in his own office, mobile to his ear while he strode in circles about the room. John slunk into his cubicle, making any attempt possible at invisibility.

Mike looked up. He eyed John over the rim of his specs. "Good meeting?"

John just shook his head slowly and booted up his laptop.

"Ah," Mike went back to his spreadsheets.

John tried to focus on his work. Emails glared back at him, dying to be read and answered, but he couldn't see straight.

He jumped when his phone rang. He picked up the headset.

"Hello? John Watson."

"Watson," came a droll, mildly irritated voice. "Would you please round up your team and bring them to the boardroom? We have a status meeting."

"Uh, yes, Mr. Holmes." John carefully put the receiver back and turned. "Mike, meeting. Boardroom."

"You what?" Mike turned with a frown on his face. "Right now?"

"Yep," John banged his knuckles on the wall beside him. "Dimmock, you too. Get Sarah and Sally."

Mike followed John out and they waved signals at Anderson who was on the phone. The man scowled, clearly annoyed.

"Now," John mouthed.

The team gathered and made their way across the office. No one knew what this was about. John had his suspicions.

They trooped into the main boardroom and grabbed a seat. Sarah and Sally followed Dimmock.

"What's happened? Why are we meeting?" Sally asked.

"This had better be important," Anderson said brusquely, appearing last. "I was on the phone with a client."

"Who called this?" Sarah asked, sliding into the chair beside John.

"Mycroft," John said, avoiding their inquisitive looks.

Dimmock gawped. "Bloody hell. What've we done now?"

"Great, just great," Anderson hissed as the door swung open again. Mycroft Holmes, Lestrade and finally Sherlock swanned in with stern looks.

The sales team went quiet.

"Sorry to interrupt your work," Mycroft said, coming to stand at the head of the table. "But we need to have a quick status update. Milliner and Co. will be in the newspapers tomorrow and we thought it might do you good to hear it from us first."

Silence ensued. John set his jaw and avoided making eye contact with his bosses.

"Why?" Anderson asked curtly.

"As of right now, we will be stopping all work orders on their campaigns. Please ensure your coordinators know this and give the operations managers notice. H&H is issuing legal documentation to Milliner vis-a-vis their inability to prove payment of services rendered. No one is to talk to any employee of Milliner and co. Also, any media enquiries must be redirected to myself only. Their contract will be severed officially at midnight, as our servers need time to make the changeover."

Mike's jaw dropped and silence descended. Anderson scowled and looked at John. No one else made any attempt to look his way. It was obvious: John had fucked up somehow and had lost a client. A big one.

"You are joking," Anderson snorted. He still eyed John up. "What did you do, Watson?"

"Anderson," Lestrade said in warning. "This is a team. We don't-"

"He's affected our entire budget, now," Anderson retorted.

"Watson is aware of the situation," Mycroft said, "it will be business as usual Mr. Anderson."

"Ugh," Anderson rolled his eyes. Sally was staring at John now.

"So what happened, exactly?" She asked. "Lost your temper, Johnny?"

"Now come on," Mike said, "we all know Reid's a bloody bastard to work with. Give John a break."

"We don't give breaks, Stamford," Sherlock's voice cut through the room like ice. Everyone went silent. John looked up, finally meeting those icy blue eyes. "It came to my attention far too late. This matter of non-payment is inexcusable. Why was I not informed earlier?" He stared right back at John.

"Er, well, we've been working on it," Lestrade said calmly.

"Working on it?" Sherlock hissed, eyes cutting about the room. "Rubbish. And his last campaign went out late. Do you imbeciles not even have the capacity to pull one project together?" His gaze slid back to John.

"Watson, I expect that the calibre of work coming out of this office is of the highest quality only. No substitutes. You failed to ensure Reid's campaign went out on time. I don't care who or what caused the delay, but what I do know is who is responsible for keeping an eye on it."

John tilted his head and cleared his throat. "Our supplier was short. Materials were shipped to the wrong location and had to be recalled. We only lost a couple days at most. I was keeping an eye on it, sir."

"And yet it still went out late. And now I have to do damage control because you have this vague idea in your little skull of being 'on top of things'. Don't delude yourself, because it certainly isn't working on me. You mishandled a perfectly reasonable order and you didn't notify me or the client early enough."

John clenched his jaw and stared back. "I wasn't aware minor problems were to be directed your way, sir."

"You aren't aware of much, then, are you?" Sherlock glared back at him with the full force of his annoyance. "Now we have to jump through legal hoops to get this lawsuit underway all while attempting to fend off his allegations of breach of contract."

"He was being bonused on all-" John bit out, his brow darkening.

"I do. Not. Care." Sherlock bit out, face a painting in growing anger. "Don't fuck up again."

"I'll try not to," John said sharply. "Sir."

The two faced off across the table while everyone else stared.

"Ahem," Mycroft cleared his throat. "That will be all."

Awkward silence settled before John stood abruptly, rage oozing from his every pore. He stormed out of the room, leaving behind whispers and shocked co-workers.

 

-*-

 

"Ruddy bastard," John growled under his breath as he stabbed at his keyboard. "Fuck!" He slammed the space bar. Damnit, the program had frozen. Again.

It had been a full week since the Milliner incident. Now the tabloids had the news and enquiries were flying in from all over. Was H&H losing a massive client due to bad relations, or was Milliner and co. really not paying their bills? Gossip flew up the corporate grapevine. Two massive corporations going head-to-head. Bollocks.

John had had enough of the awkward looks his colleagues kept shooting his way. He'd laid low most of the week, even having a boring, angry weekend to himself hadn't helped.

He was still angry. Bloody enraged at the whole thing. His client was a piece of shit, and Sherlock, Sherlock could just go fuck himself for all John cared.

Anderson gleefully took jabs at him at every opportunity. Sarah always had a pitiful look on her face as well. Ugh, it was awful. 

Sherlock didn't even have the decency to be out of the country during it all. The man was in the office every day. On the phone, on business calls, cloistered up with the lawyers all week. They didn't speak in the hallway, he and John. John was indifferent. He couldn't have given a flying frig about his own behaviour. Sod the prick. So what if they didn't make eye contact or share even a word during status meetings.

Sherlock was as cold and bossy as always anyway. Now nobody could say he gave John preferential treatment. Not even Lestrade knew what to do. He'd probably decided to leave well alone.

 

And so it was that John just hunkered down and buried himself in his work. He had lost a major client. He had to get more to replace Milliner. Fine. He could do that. He could slave over presentations and proposals. He could set up meeting after meeting. As long as it kept him busy, kept his brain from fuming all day.

 

It was late on Friday and none of his software was working. He grunted and forced his laptop to shut down. The last hour's work: gone. This was painful.

He stood up, remembering he'd sent something to print ages ago.

He took the long way round the office. He didn't want to walk by Sherlock's office, even if it was after hours at the end of the week. He could avoid the bastard as much as he liked.

At the printer, he sighed. His papers were in the recycling pile, so he had to dig through the mass to find them.

On his way back to his desk, he looked over the sheets. The numbers swam before his eyes. God, he was tired. This wasn't going to work. Not tonight. He slumped into his chair and stared at the opening screen on his computer. The cursor blinked for his password.

He was tetchy and his shoulders ached from slouching. He could feel the pulse of a headache blooming at the back of his skull. Fuck it. He was done.

He stood, grabbed his coat, checked to make sure he had his mobile and keys before heading out. The office was dead, the lights dim.

At the lifts he waited. This had been a trying week. Maybe he would come in on the weekend to finish up? No. Maybe go visit Harry? Hadn't seen her in ages. Maybe call the rugby lads up. He could do with a bit of rough, muscle-tearing exercise.

 

The lift pinged and John sighed, stepping into the metal box. He pressed 'L' and waited.

 

The metal doors shunted to a halt as a gloved hand grabbed at one. John looked up, then scowled as the familiar figure of one Sherlock Holmes stepped into the dimly lit box.

As the doors closed, John felt his hackles rise. He clenched his jaw and purposely stared ahead.

Sherlock said nothing, far too engrossed in his mobile.

The ride was quiet.

John's thoughts jumbled and ran about inside his skull, screaming to get out. The man was right there and John couldn't get the words out. No, he was better than that.

 

Finally, the lift binged and the doors opened. John stepped out purposefully and strode through the empty lobby. It was dark outside. The tube would be fairly manageable at this hour, thank God.

 

John pushed through the revolving door and breathed in the brisk night air. Good. He was out of that godforsaken building. A weekend to himself. Again.

 

"There's no need to be childish, Watson."

 

The voice stopped John in his tracks. He felt his fists press against his sides. He should have worn gloves.

Knowing better, he turned. Sherlock was a few paces behind, long coat catching in the night breeze. He looked fucking majestic and cool. Infuriating.

 

"What did you say, sir?" John snapped.

 

Sherlock looked back at him, dark brows like a straight-edge above his eyes. The streetlight did nothing more than highlight the fucker's midnight curls and shapely cheekbones.

"This behaviour is unnecessary. It would do you well to stop acting like a child."

 

John's face heated. "You what?" He hissed, willing himself to stay put. 

Sherlock cocked a brow. "Did I stutter?"

"You smarmy bastard," John bit out. "You think I'm being immature, do you? You think me not decking you is out of order?"

Sherlock frowned, "I wasn't under the impression you wanted to punch me."

"Because you're bloody oblivious, aren't you?" John took a step forward. "Thank your lucky stars I'm not into violence. Good night Mister Holmes."

John turned and made to stride off but was caught suddenly. Sherlock grabbed his elbow, which was really not the right thing to do.

John yanked his arm back. "What is your issue?" He hissed. 

Sherlock scowled. "Watson, if you have something you'd like to say-"

"Why bother!" John snapped back, "You only like the sound of your own voice! You can't be bothered to listen, can you? No, fuck you, Sherlock. I'm not in the mood. You've done enough."

"Wait," Sherlock said, again grabbing at John. He held fast this time. "You really are angry at me, aren't you? This isn't just some fluttering idiocy."

"Oh, you are a genius," John's sarcasm was cutting. Sherlock was still frowning, eyes flicking over John, reading his every motion.

"Let me take you home," he said suddenly.

John glared up at him. "No. Not interested."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "no, you imbecile. I have my car. I can drive you home. The tube's backed up. Accident."

"Liar," John said. He yanked his arm back.

Sherlock's eyes became slits. "I am not lying," he showed his teeth. "Let me drive you home. That is all."

 

"I don't want a fuck," John said harshly. "You'll have to do it yourself. Don't expect me to do it anymore."

Sherlock stared at him in silence. "You really are upset."

"Oh, now I have your attention. No sex tonight, Johnny must be peevish."

"Watson," Sherlock sighed, "I don't-" he paused. "Let me drive you. It'll be hours before the tube's online again. And the cabbies are all full due to the mess."

John's fingers flexed in annoyance and he presed his palms to his eyes. He groaned angrily. "Fine! Whatever!"

 

Sherlock nodded and turned on his heel. "This way."

John glared at the tall man's back, but followed. The sooner he got home, the better.

 

The two made their way to the building's underground parking. John rarely came down here, as he rarely drove to work. It was chillier and much quieter than the street. Nearly all the cars were gone.

Sherlock strode through the cavernous space, his footsteps echoing.

A bleeping sound. A black car parked at the far end lit up, its indicators flashing. John grit his teeth.

He'd never been in Sherlock's car. He always imagined the VP rode around in town cars all the time, chauffeured about like a prince. It was a sleek vehicle, top of the line. Two door, black leather seats and clean as a whistle inside. John gingerly slid into the passenger seat. It smelled brand new. Probably was. Prick.

Sherlock shucked his coat and threw it into the backseat before sliding into the driver's seat. John couldn't help but notice how far back the seat was set, allowing those long, long legs to move around the pedals. He scowled some more.

"Sometime today would be nice," John huffed, shutting his door and staring out the windshield.

The engine roared to life and Sherlock's hand reached for the gearstick.

John hadn't thought about Sherlock as much of a driver. They'd never spoken about cars. They never spoke about much, if he was honest.

As they reversed out, Sherlock kept his eyes on the road. He swirled the steering wheel about expertly and knocked it into gear. "You might want to put your seatbelt on," he murmured. John huffed and complied.

The car shot forward, engine rumbling beneath them and John almost yelped with surprise. He scrambled to get the belt on just as they zoomed up the exit ramp and shot out onto the street.

Bloody hell.

John watched as Sherlock expertly guided the car in and around traffic, slipping down quieter roads, avoiding the messy main roads. They went faster. John felt the rush of speed up his legs and spine. 

"Now, then," Sherlock said, voice a deep thrum in the confined space. "Tell me exactly what's on your mind."

John looked out the window. "You don't want to know," he growled.

"Oh, but I think I do," Sherlock answered, swinging the car around a corner and through a roundabout. "Test me."

John chewed his lip angrily. He'd been stewing all week. 

"All right," he said, deciding he might as well let it all out. What was the worst thing that could happen? He could get fired. Meh. Jobs he could find. "You're an insufferable arsehole and I've wanted to punch you into the ground since last Tuesday."

"Tuesday," Sherlock hummed. "I see. The Milliner problem."

"No, not the Milliner problem, the Sherlock's-a-bastard-and-I-hate-him problem."

"Ah," Sherlock smiled. "Go on."

"You are a tool. You suck. You are a tit and a half. You are a fucking turd-faced, smarmy arsehole with a poisonous personality and if you're not careful, you'll be in the news as the victim of a mercy killing financed by every sodding person you've ever pissed off, which is a lot of people so you should be damn careful."

 

Silence.

 

John's heart thudded in his chest. That felt good to get out. 

 

"Hmmm," Sherlock hummed. John wondered where they were. He'd lost track of the streetnames. "This is a personal matter, then. I've offended you. I can never tell."

"What do you mean you can never tell?" John cried incredulously. "I've been stark-raving mad all week!"

"Have you?" Sherlock turned to blink at him. 

"Ugh!" John threw up his hands. "God, just get me home. This is pointless."

Sherlock shifted gear suddenly and turned down a sidestreet. John gripped the armrests. "Where the fuck are we going?"

"Watson, as much as you think I can read you, I don't have access to every synapse in your brain. What happened with Reid is over now. He's lawyered up because he knows his company is in the drink. Lestrade tells me you're looking into new leads, so what is the problem, really? Must you hover on old topics forever? What's done is done."

John gaped at the man.

"You really don't get it, do you?" The car reared up over the pavement and immediately down to a parking garage. "Oi, wait," John sputtered. "This isn't my house. What the bloody hell-"

Sherlock swiped his key card and the garage door opened up. 

"Hey," John snapped. "You were supposed to drive me home."

Sherlock swerved about the parking lot and idled a bit before moving into reverse, his focus now on looking out the back window. The car halted, Sherlock knocked it into 'park' and switched the engine off. He then looked at John.

"You're very mad at me, aren't you? I did this."

"Of course, you bloody wel-argh! You are so bloody dim sometimes!"

Sherlock stared back silently, eyes sweeping over John's nose and lips.

"Oh no, don't get any funny ideas," John said, but still, his pulse raced suddenly. No no no.

Sherlock watched as John's tongue peeked out to lick his lips. Sherlock's tongue mimicked its movements, coming out to wet his own pouty pink lips. Damn, those lips. John swallowed heavily.

"You insulted me," John breathed angrily. Sherlock locked gazes with him. "You humiliated me not only in front of my client, but in front of my team. I've never been so mad in all my life."

Sherlock frowned. "I was merely stating the obvious at the time-"

"Obvious, but usually kept to oneself, Sherlock! You basically called my work ethic and professionalism into question. You gave me nothing to stand on! You told me off like a child! I'm a grown man. I can handle the trouble, what I cannot handle, however, is the public humiliation you dole out on a daily basis."

Sherlock was silent. 

John shifted in his seat. "You're an arrogant tosser and you only get away with it because you're fucking brilliant to boot. The rest of us can't get away with it. Not like you can."

"I am your superior," Sherlock intoned, "I have a responsibility to-"

"To get the troops in line! Not fucking make me out to be incompetent. Unless I am, in which case, be done with me." John glared at Sherlock, eyes hard. "I don't expect preferential treatment because..." He waved his hand about awkwardly. "You know."

"Because we have engaged in sex multiple times over the past two years," Sherlock supplied.

John blushed furiously. God.

"I don't expect any preference," John soldiered on. "Treat me the same as everyone else, just don't be a prick about it."

Sherlock stared some more. "Oh," John added, "And don't assume you get to fuck me even if you terrorize me. I'm not a fucking toy. This isn't even a thing."

Sherlock raised a brow.

"It isn't," John insisted hotly. 

"Then I assume you can come upstairs with no expectations?" Sherlock said softly.

"Why?"

"Hmmm, coffee?"

"Don't be ridiculous, you don't even have a coffee machine."

"You'd be the only one to notice," Sherlock said. "Come up."

"We're not having sex," John growled.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, then opened his car door. "Who said that?"

John was sceptical and knew better, but he got out anyway. Might have to call a cab anyway.

 

-*-

 

Sherlock's flat was clean and pristine as ever. 

Sherlock hung up his coat and eyed John's.

"I'm not staying," John said harshly.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know. Don't be such a bore, Watson." He slid open a drawer in the kitchen, snatching up what appeared to be a cigarette. John blinked. "What are you doing?" He asked, watching the tall man make his way over to the windows. He slid back a curtain, revealing the balcony door.

"Observe, Watson. Need I explain?" The disdain was apparent in the deep voice of the VP. Sherlock pulled the door open, letting the cold night air waft in.

John scowled and felt awkward standing about in his full winter garb. But he was stern with himself.

He followed Sherlock out onto the balcony. It was high. God, the view.

John leaned against the glass railing and stared. The street was very far below them. Fascinating.

Sherlock lit up and sucked at a cigarette. John stared. "Since when do you smoke?"

Dark curls lifted in the breeze as Sherlock cocked a brow. "Since when do you give a damn?"

John shrugged. He was tired. This was tiring.

They stood there in silence, listening to the city noises below.

John shivered. Even in his coat he was chilled. He glanced over. Sherlock still had his blazer on. He must be cold.

The tall man was looking out, brow furrowed. John couldn't help taking in his profile: the perfect nose, long lashes, softly rounded lips grasping the white cigarette, opening and exhaling smoke into the night. The long neck, pale and smooth, mottled with the odd freckle or two. His fingers were so long, so elegant. 

Then Sherlock's gaze slipped his way. John frowned. "What?"

"You surprise me, Watson. That's all."

"Whatever that means."

Sherlock blew smoke and flicked the cigarette away.

"That's dangerous," John sighed. "You could set someone on fire."

"Fuck me," Sherlock said, his body turning to John, his voice deep in his throat.

John blinked, brows knitted. Sherlock stepped towards him, causing John to back against the nearby jutting concrete.

"Excuse me?" John hissed, even as his breathing fluttered.

Sherlock pressed his hands to the wall on either side of John's head. His face was so close, his breath washed over John's nose. "Fuck me, John Watson. Fuck me into the ground."

John stuttered. No. No, not again. He wouldn't be pulled in again.

"It's been ages," Sherlock rumbled, smoky breath ghosting across John's lips. "I've been fidgety all week, I need some release."

"I-I-" John felt his cock respond painfully. He licked his lips. "You said-"

"I lied," Sherlock mumured, lips moving over John's, barely touching.

"You always lie."

"You know I was lying. Of course I want to have sex with you. I always want to."

"Mm!" John shuddered. God damn, he was hard already. Damn it all to hell! Traitorous body.

 

"Come on, Watson," Sherlock breathed against John's slips. His lean body pressed against John.

"You'll be the death of me," John groaned, hands moving to grasp at Sherlock's sides. He felt warm underneath his shirt. And firm.

Sherlock licked John's lips languidly. He tasted of smoke.

"Horrible habit," John hissed, failing to hold his resolve. 

Sherlock's tongue slipped between his lips and John reciprocated, pressing his own into that warm wetness he was now all too familiar with. They kissed roughly, tongues fighting, lips pressing. Sherlock groaned and John knew he was done for. He grabbed Sherlock's hips firmly and pushed the man away. Sherlock blinked back at him, confused.

"You want me to fuck you senseless?" John growled.

Sherlock licked his upper lip slowly. He nodded as a smile crept over his mouth.

"Fine."

John stepped back into the well-lit flat and yanked Sherlock after him. He threw his coat onto the settee as he passed. He shucked his jacket as well and yanked his tie off in one movement. Sherlock followed him as he made his way to the bedroom.

John kicked off his shoes and stared at the VP. "Get undressed. Now."

Sherlock complied. He dropped his blazer, unbuttoned his crisp shirt swiftly and loosened his belt, all while keeping his eye on John's own stripping.

Once they were down to their underwear, John stood tall. "You're arrogant and frustrating and bloody awful, you know that?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "I've been told." He moved forward, fingers tracing a line down John's chest. He hooked a finger in John's waistband and tugged the fabric forward. He leaned in close enough that John could smell him. Sherlock gazed down between them, as his fingers exposed John. He licked his lips. John shivered imperceptibly. Sherlock pushed him so that he sat back onto the bed.

"You've been angry all week, it seems," Sherlock purred, tugging John's briefs down. "Rather becoming, if I might add. If I'd known how flustered and loud you could get, I would have pissed you off a lot sooner."

"You always piss me off, " John grunted as his underwear fell to his ankles. Sherlock took a moment to appreciate John in his nakedness. 

"Mmm," he murred, hand gripping John firmly.

John jumped, hands coming to rest on Sherlock's hips again. He thumbed those hipbones. Definitely one of his favourite Sherlock spots. 

"Would you mind terribly if I sucked you for a bit?" Sherlock breathed over his cheek, fingers caressing John ever so beautifully.

John shivered. "Oh, God, yes, do."

Sherlock smirked and slid to his knees. He pressed John's legs open wider, taking his time to look, caress and admire. He leaned forward, hand directing John's cock toward his lips.

"Oh fuck ..." John gasped, falling back onto the bed. Sherlock licked a stripe up his shaft before tonguing gently at the head. "Your mouth. Those lips. God almighty."

Sherlock hummed in agreement and slipped John's cock in between his plush lips. The warmth and wetness was brilliant. Amazing. Divine!

"Uuh," John breathed, hips hitching as Sherlock sucked him in deep. The VP set up a slow, torturous rhythm, teeth scraping every now and then. "Mmm."

He used his right hand to pump John slowly, following the trail of his mouth. His tongue swirled around the glans, lapping up John's flavour, swirling, swirling. John's hips twitched as the hand sped up.

"Sherlock..." John groaned, feet lifting and pressing at the tall man's hips. Sherlock hummed around John, his wet, wet mouth more pleasure than anyone could imagine. He sucked hard and John all but yelped at the sudden pressure. Sherlock swallowed him deeper, leaving no patch of skin untouched. It felt amazing.

John's hips were tilting ever so gently, rising with Sherlock's ministrations. He was so busy trying to breathe, he hadn't realized he had curled his fingers in Sherlock's hair, tugging every time the taller man sucked at the head of his penis.

Sherlock rumbled around him then pulled back.

John blinked fuzzily, wondering why the wonderful sucking had stopped. It couldn't end. He liked it.

Sherlock climbed over him onto the bed and stared down at John. John blinked blearily, noticing how Sherlock's dark hair fell in perfect curls about his face. Sherlock licked his lips and John swallowed audibly. The full lips were pink and very, very moist. Wet from sucking John off. Amazing.

Sherlock leant in for a kiss, pressing his pants-clad cock against John. He squirmed about, making his need very, very clear.

"Yes, yes," John gasped. "Let's get on with it."

Sherlock sat up, crawled away. John heard rustling and the sound of a drawer opening, then slamming shut.

Sherlock tugged at John's arm, dragging the man onto the bed properly. John was about to sit up, when Sherlock instead sat heavily on his stomach, facing away from John. He bent down, away and John bucked, feeling those lips encase him again. "Holy Jesus," John bit out, hips lifting automatically. Sherlock set a new rhythm, bobbing up and down over John's raging cock. John gasped and saw nothing but Sherlock's black boxer briefs stretched across that unbelievable arse. He thought quickly and shot hands out, immediately pulling the offending fabric down, displaying those delicious white cheeks. 

"Mhm!" Sherlock's smothered yelp was distorted by the dick in his mouth. He raised his arse higher, giving John's dextrous fingers ample room to tug and press. He squeezed Sherlock's bum, awed by the plumpness of it all. 

"Fantastic arse," John whispered. "Amazing."

Sherlock pulled off and John felt firm fingers rolling on what could only be a condom. Sherlock twisted again, handing John a tube. He squirmed, his butt lifting higher, presenting to John.

Right.

John made haste, uncapping the lube and just squirting some over Sherlock. He threw the tube away and marvelled at the way Sherlock's hips could wiggle as he gently pressed his finger in. Carefully, John opened Sherlock up, massaging, smoothing his way forward. Sherlock gasped when John inserted a second finger.

"Fuck," John hissed. He was ragingly hard now. This was getting close.

He took matters into his own hands, pushing at one hip, which caused Sherlock to tumble sideways, panting, onto the bed.

John yanked the underwear off him before scrambling atop the lanky man.

Sherlock's chest heaved, his knees opening wide to accept John.

John slid over him, pressing himself close, loving the feel of Sherlock's milky skin sliding against his own. 

"You are making me ravenous," John growled, nipping at Sherlock's lips. Sherlock bit back. John's tongue duelled with his, their kisses hot and messy.

Sherlock exhaled sharply when John pressed against his entrance.

"Finally," Sherlock growled. "Do it."

John lapped at Sherlock. He wanted to enjoy this, all of it.

He used his left hand to guide himself, but didn't push in. Not yet.

Sherlock whined, feeling the heavy head of John's cock pressing and swirling around his arsehole. John loved feeling his flesh against Sherlock, inside Sherlock, anywhere near the mad fucker.

"You fucking humiliated me," he said, voice gravelly. He pressed the head in. Sherlock flexed, hips tilting to welcome him. John bit Sherlock's chin. "It's not on, Sherlock."

"I ... Uh, I know," the taller man groaned. "Fuck me."

"What was that, sir?" John pulled back and looked down at the disheveled VP.

Sherlock licked his lips slowly, filthily, his hands stroking down his own chest, meeting with John's hips and stroking sexily up John's sweaty torso.

"I said, fuck. Me. Watson."

John groaned and pressed forward, glad he'd taken the time to stretch Sherlock. He slid in smoothly. God, it had been ages since he'd last done this. Shit.

He brought his left hand up, sliding both arms under Sherlock's shoulder blades, fingers curling up over the muscles connecting neck to shoulder. He balanced himself perfectly, pulled out and pushed in again.

Sherlock flexed, his knees lifting, mouth falling open. Oh.

John slammed home again, nerves fizzing up and down his cock. Sherlock wrapped both arms around John, tugging him in closer. John huffed against a warm shoulder, hips snapping forward, skin slapping where they connected.

"Harder," Sherlock hissed, raising his arse to meet the thrusts.

John complied and moved quicker, sliding in and out at a furious rate. His cock punched forward and Sherlock arched breathily. Again and again John rode into Sherlock, every stroke making the darker man shudder. His untouched cock was pressed between them, barely getting enough attention but it seemed to not matter. 

John moved faster, faster, his rhythm losing focus as every nerve ending started to vibrate. His thigh muscles clenched mightily as his breath got caught in his throat. 

"Uh! Uh!" John groaned, feeling the pressure build.

Sherlock stared up at him as he rode blindly forward, seeking that blinding heat. John's movements became sharper, more erratic as the wet sounds of their fucking indicated how close he was to ... to ..

"Come for me," Sherlock said, his deep, dirty voice snaking into John's head. "Fuck me."

"Unh!" John shuddered as his orgasm knocked into him, his balls pressed painfully against Sherlock's arse, his cock tensing and spurting deep inside Sherlock. Oh God. God. Bliss.

John's vision went fuzzy as he continued to shudder through orgasm. It was almost painful, so good.

He shivered as his body relaxed, pinning Sherlock.

Hands caressed his back and bum, kneading his warm, exhausted flesh.

John had the mind the roll over, releasing Sherlock. He gasped for air, seeing spots still.

Sherlock.

Shit.

John curled towards his bedmate, only to find the man jerking himself.

"No, no," he swatted Sherlock's hand away. "Mine."

John loved doing this. He reveled in it. Staring down at his boss while he jacked the taller man off. Sherlock was close, his stomach muscles flexing, twitching as John's firm grip slipped up and down his shaft. There was so much precome, it actually made John gawp.

"You magnificent beast," John breathed, staring down into Sherlock's pale, wide eyes. Oh, there it was. So close...

Sherlock never looked away, his hands were curled beside his head, his hips lifting.

Fuck, he was gorgeous.

John's slippery hand gripped tighter as Sherlock's eyes rolled, his tongue coming out to lap at his upper lip. He shuddered suddenly and John held his breath, awed by the sensual display of orgasm. Semen spurted over John's fingers, hot and sticky. Sherlock's toes curled and his legs opened wider.

"Fuck," John could barely breathe. What a sight.

He smeared the come over the hair at the base of Sherlock's cock. The VP shivered at the odd stimulation.

John laid flat, catching his own breath. Sherlock's chest was heaving, his energy obliterated.

"Oh," was all the taller man could utter, his voice hoarse.

John laid beside him, eyes drifting shut. 

Sherlock just breathed him in. 

 

-*-

 

It was dark. John felt overheated. He kicked at the offending duvet. In his sleepy annoyance, he fumbled about, freeing his legs. Better. The air was cooler.

He could easily fall back asleep like this.

A  hand curled over his stomach. John jerked awake.

Sherlock lying on his stomach, face towards John, still asleep. His long fingers were curling and uncurling over John's belly. 

In the darkness, John could just make out the jut of the lanky man's hip, the swell of his ample bum. No duvet for him either.

John rubbed at his face. He ached all over.

But it felt ... Okay. He had slept well, at the very least. Not like the previous few nights.

Sighing, turned on his side and scooched closer to his boss. No one got to see this. The sleeping face of Sherlock Holmes. The naked arse and splayed legs of Sherlock Holmes. John smirked. He snaked out a hand and rN it gently over a pert cheek. Glorious.

Sherlock rumbled in his sleep, nosing at the pillow. John gently squeezed.

After all that drama, he felt he deserved this. This moment of peace and quiet.

Sherlock, the sodding bastard asleep beside him stark naked and worn out from a grand old rogering. This would do.

As he drifted back into his bleary dreams, John couldn't help but snuggle in closer, breathing in the scent of the man beside him.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promised a Christmas chapter, and here it is. :)

"The girls are dressed up."

John looked up to find Dimmock leaning against the entrance to his cubicle. 

"I assume you have a reason for stating the obvious?" John answered, eyes drifting back to his screen.

Dimmock glanced behind himself. Mike was in with Lestrade, so no one was close enough to overhear.

"It's just, well, it's only the Christmas party," Dimmock whispered. "Am I looking into this too much? It's not like we're having clients in. Why are they all dolled up?"

John raised his brows and continued ticking away at his keyboard.

"It makes me uneasy, John," Dimmock sounded beyond uneasy.

John smirked and finally looked up again. "I am trying to grasp why, but yeah, go on."

Dimmock made a face. "Why dress up if you're just spending the night drinking with co-workers? Are they on the pull? Should I have worn my best suit?"

John just continued to smile beatifically. "The girls like dressing up. Leave them be. I doubt any of them are looking to ... Hm ... Get personal with any of us blokes."

Dimmock humphed. "It's just odd."

John looked back at him computer, "No it isn't, Dimmock, you're just bizarre. Stop reading into things."

"Fine, I'm taking notice of stuff. Maybe I should get a drink before we start. Calm my nerves."

"Try not. Mycroft looks down on office hour drinking with no real purpose."

Mike appeared and clucked his tongue. "Don't you have any work?" He said to Dimmock.

Dimmock sighed, "yes, fine. Only an hour to go. I suppose I can make it."

"Such a hard life," John chuckled as Dimmock disappeared and Mike sat down.

 

It was indeed the annual H&H Christmas - no, holiday - party. It swooped in every year with much excitement. John had already opted out of the silly secret gift-giving game everyone was partaking in. Experience had taught him that buying gifts for random people wasn't his forté. He had always defaulted to a bottle of alcohol until the time he'd ended up gifting it to old Jim, the lone teetotaller. Lesson learned. You can't win.

 

The second floor had been booked for all London divisions, which meant the company still appeared frugal while maintaining some spirit of the season: comaraderie, joyous festivities and no outside costs or liabilities. It made John smirk. It would be a fairly sizeable party, what with all the selected divisions coming into the business district. Not all H&H employees worked in sales, after all, and even more didn't work in the same building. It was always an interesting mish-mash.

 

The party was due to begin soon, but John still had work to finish up. Contracts needed to be copied and filed. Operations had to get their lists updated and the finance department wanted all expenses due by end of week. John had a bit of catching up to do, but damn, he'd make sure to have it all done in time.

 

-*-

 

Sherlock rarely attended the Christmas party. Most winters, the VP was off in some remote office tying up other year-ends. No peace for the wicked.

This year, however, Mycroft had made a point to his brother in the last sales meeting of his being at the London party. John tried not to think too hard about it. He hadn't dressed up, or down. He hadn't thought too hard about whether he should drink or not. No, he was going in even-keeled. Confident. Stable.

 

He jumped when his phone rang. 

"Watson," he breathed into the mouthpiece.

"Hi John, sorry to bother you."

John sighed, "Molly, hi."

"Um, I'm downstairs in the storage room and kind of , um, overestimated how many boxes of wine we had."

"Loading up, are we?" John said.

"Yes, well, Mr. Holmes made it abundantly clear that we cannot run out this year, like last year. Looks bad, I suppose."

"Worries me more that we have that much in storage."

Molly breathed, "yes. Well, thing is, I've sort of broken the, uh, trolley. You couldn't possibly-"

"Why did you call me?" John said with a roll of his eyes. 

"Well, you're always so nice, and, I don't think think management wants to hear about another mess I've made."

John rubbed at his mouth. Damnit, he was too easy to play. He would bet twenty quid that just the thought of Sherlock hearing any more about Molly's bumbling would give the poor girl a panic attack.

"I'll be right down."

"Thank you, John." He could hear her relieved smile amile across the line. "Don't forget the backup trolley!"

 

John rode down to the bottom floor, took the stairs into the underground parking and rubbed at his arms as he wound his way over to the corporate storage room.

"Shit, it's cold!" He hissed, giving Molly a fright.

She looked better off in her fur-hooded parka. She smiled though at the sight of the trolley John dragged.

"Oh, it won't take long. I got most of the boxes up already, but thought I could shift this last batch in one go." John noticed the busted wheel on the poor simple trolley. It was for wine, though. Good wine. He crooked a brow at a label. Very good wine.

John just buckled down and assisted her with the heavy lifting.

 

-*-

 

"Where the hell have you been?" Lestrade said, catching John was he walked by his office.

John walked beside his boss, back to his own cubicle. "Errands," he muttered.

"Right, well, his majesty was looking for you."

"Fuuuck," John huffed, falling into his desk chair. He'd not gotten to his last few files, damnit.

"Don't," Lestrade clucked. "Just get over there."

"What did I do?" John asked, standing. He was still bone-chilled from the storage room and his shoulders ached from lifting those godforsaken boxes.

Lestrade shrugged. "No clue."

"And you call yourself a leader," John huffed.

"Your words, not mine," Lestrade grinned. "Just don't push him over the edge, yeah? Do not make the nutter crazy, all right? We have a long night ahead of us."

"What am I? A nursemaid?"

Lestrade laughed. "Now there's an image."

"Enjoy," John smirked, heading out of the cubicle. "See you at the party, I suppose."

It was quiet, meaning most people had headed downstairs. Mycroft would give his speech soon, which meant Sherlock had exactly ten minutes to get this over with.

Upon reaching the corner office, John paused. He could see the younger Holmes at his desk. Sherlock was actually writing, not typing. Piles of papers littered his desk. Sherlock scribbled something, flicked the document aside, then scribbled on another sheet.

John tried not to notice how a dark tendril had escaped from the VP's coiffed do. He sucked his bottom lip, stepped forward and tapped at the door.

Sherlock looked up. Upon seeing John, he waved him in.

 

John pushed the door open and entered. The room was toasty warm.

"You wanted to see me?"

Sherlock just eyed him for a moment before sitting back in his seat.

"Do you have a pen on you?" Sherlock asked drily.

John raised a brow. "Uh," he dug a hand into his inner jacket pocket. He pulled out an H&H branded biro.

Sherlock squinted, then rolled his eyes. He pulled open his desk draw, dug around for a bit, then tossed a new pen at John.

"I told Lestrade those corporate pens were rubbish," Sherlock breathed. 

John eyed the pen in his hand. Plain black shell with gold edging. He popped the lid. "A fountain pen. Of course."

Sherlock was back to scribbling. "A pen is a tool, Watson. Never waste money on fallible tools."

John smirked, eyeing the engraved nib and silver sheen. "What? Is the ink made from the ground up vertebrae of New Guinea elephants?"

Sherlock didn't even pause. "Powdered bone would severely limit fluidity of ink and New Guinea is not home to any form of Elephantidae."

"What did you need me for?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up again. "I need an extra hand."

John's brows rose slowly, his head tilting. Sherlock sighed audibly. "Quickly, take a bunch of these." He threw a stack of papers to the end of his expansive desk. "We have exactly nine minutes to finish."

John stepped up and grabbed the papers before settling on the chair opposite. He glanced through the stack of similar sheets.

 

"These-" he began, slightly shocked.

"Are bonus papers for each employee. I need them all signed. Mycroft saw fit to delegate this year. Toff."

John looked up, eyes wide. "Sign? Why would I sign? I shouldn't be seeing these! These are my colleagues'."

"You are not signing your name, Watson. You will be signing mine. I assume you can mimic close enough?"

John gaped as the other man continued to slash his signature across more sheets, pen flying faster than typically possible.

"Pretty certain that's illegal," John blurted.

"I don't know what you mean, Watson. One would think it wonderful to eye up competitor bonus rates."

"Not the point," John huffed, eyeing his watch. Eight minutes. Bugger. "I am in no position to sign on your behalf-"

"Well, then go," Sherlock said.

John glared at the top of the VP's head.

"Why must I be roped into your business?"

Sherlock looked up, eyes pale, skin flawlessly clear. "Because you're the only one I bother to trust."

John stopped grousing, eyes wide. 

Holy shit. Sherlock trusted him? That was high praise indeed.

"Stop staring at me like that. You can't be surprised, Watson. Surely not?"

Sherlock cocked a brow, which only made him look sharper, more beautiful. "Four minutes."

John licked his lips. "Right. Fine. But if we get caught-"

"Signing bonuses? Please."

John uncapped the fountain pen and shook his head. What was this life?

 

-*-

 

The second floor was catered and the alcohol was flowing. John fed himself on mini sliders, silly little hors d'eouvres and very, very good wine. He had managed to catch up with other colleagues visiting from the other divisions. The alcohol was helping relax everyone. Even Mycroft's stiff speech hadn't dampened the affair.

 

And Dimmock did, perhaps, have a point. The women were dressed up. They wore heels, satiny sheaths and stunning makeup. This made John chuckle. 

 

There was, of course, the lone father christmas hat making the rounds. Every year, without fail, a stupid red and white hat would appear. Eventually the employees got drunk enough to take bucketloads of photos, each person passing off the hat to the next person. No matter where he worked, he noticed this. 

 

"Is there some kind of embargo on beer?" Lestrade said, coming to stand with John.

"Wine not to your taste?" John asked.

"No, it's good stuff, no lie, but it just knocks the execs off their feet, you know?"

John nodded, "Ah. Yes. Wine, the ultimate inhibitor."

"Has last year been erased from your memory?" Lestrade said with a bark.

"Not at all. Just incentive to stay sober."

"And what? Give you the opportunity to find someone peeing in a manager's office? Or has it escalated to taking shits?"

John laughed. "Good thing we're not on the top floor tonight."

Lestrade snorted. "Like that's ever stopped anyone. Locked my office, just in case."

"Molly has copies of all keys. You don't think anyone would be able to pursuade her to get tipsy and hand them over?"

Lestrade looked at John. "That girl...-woman-pardon me, may be a bit flighty, but can you imagine her handing over anything under pain of the consequences?"

John sipped at his wine. "Sherlock. Right."

"Yeah. Tell him you let in unauthorised employees to defecate on his furniture."

"Cold sweats."

"Not saying no one's thought of doing so."

"First place I'd go," John conceded.

"You'd shit on his couch?"

"Nah. That's amateurish. I'd move all his equipment over an inch. Keyboard, monitor, mouse. Close the blinds a tiny bit."

Lestrade chuckled. "Clever, John. That, now that would drive him to murder. I suppose defecation isn't an issue."

"He'd know who it was in a second. He'd just make me clean it."

"Okay, all right. Enough. Trying to keep these hideous hors d'oeuvres down as it is."

The two men chuckled together.

"Good year, though," Lestrade sighed. "Glad it's over."

John raised his glass to that.

"Oh bugger, is that Anderson hitting on the financial director?"

John looked over. "Looks like it."

"For God's sake," Lestrade huffed.

A new voice entered the conversation.

"Problem already?" Sherlock asked.

John jumped. 

"Holmes! Bloody hell, don't sneak around like that." Lestrade crowed.

"Are you finally commenting on the fact one of your execs is currently propositioning Helen Weaving, head of finance?"

"Propositioning, that's a bit harsh," John said. 

"Mmm, I suppose it can't be called a proposition when just the thought makes one want to vomit profusely."

John laughed loudly at that.

"I should probably go cut him off," Lestrade muttered. "Grown man, honestly."

Oh God, John didn't want to be left alone with Sherlock. He wasn't quite ready to fake their every interaction. It was so difficult, pretending he didn't just want to bang him into the wall.

"No need," Sherlock murmured. "He is managing on his own."

John and Lestrade watched Anderson across the room gesticulate and grin wildly.

"She's glazing over," Sherlock said. "She likely noticed the mayonnaise smear on his collar. And his fingers are stained from too much smoking."

"He smokes?" John was surprised.

"Recreationally," Sherlock amended.

"Going to pretend I didn't hear that," Lestrade sighed.

"She's anxious to get away. Notice her fidgeting? Looking for her phone, probably to fake a call."

As if on cue, Weaving pulled out her phone, apologies more than apparent as she excused herself.

"Nicely done," John nodded. "She's a bit out of his league."

"A bit?" Lestrade said with a laugh. "Stratospheric."

"More than he can imagine," Sherlock added. He wouldn't elaborate, so John took note to ask later.

"Oh, Mycroft wants to see you," Lestrade said, nodding towards the older Holmes.

"Ugh," Sherlock grunted as Mycroft Holmes spotted them and moved.

"Shit, sorry. He's coming over."

"Thank you, Lestrade, I do have functioning eyes. And olfactory senses." Sherlock scrunched his nose as Mycroft closed in.

"Lestrade, Watson," he eyed his brother. "Sherlock."

"What is it?" Sherlock bit out. "Can't you leave me be for one moment?"

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. "I merely wanted to confirm that you have completed all your ... tasks for the evening?"

"Of course not. I never complete anything. Serial starter, reluctant finisher."

Mycroft squinted infitesimally, as though analysing his brother. Then his eyes dropped to John. 

"I see. Good. Sarcasm aside."

Sherlock grunted and grabbed Lestrade's wine glass.

"Oi!" Lestrade cried.

"Surely you can fetch more? Besides, you weren't enjoying your choice. I recommend the pinot noir."

"Oh yes, it is good this year," Mycroft added, turning with Lestrade, who simply groused his way back to the drinks table.

John watched them leave.

"That was subtle," he murmured.

"I don't care," Sherlock retorted.

John looked up at the taller man. Here he was, actually partaking in the office Christmas party.

"You came. Thought you'd find some flimsy excuse to weasel out of social interaction."

Sherlock eyed him. "Flimsy? I could easily fabricate a suitable reason for not fraternising with the great unwashed."

"Right. Of course. Because you really wanted to be here tonight."

"Why ever not? 'Tis the season."

John tilted his head. "I suppose. Gladness to all mankind."

Sherlock was still staring at him, heedless of anyone noticing. John felt like squirming but he held back the impulse. He was a grown man, for heaven's sake.

"You observe Christmas, Watson."

"From a great distance," John responded, sipping at his wine.

"Hmmm, more than you let on."

"What makes you say that?" John asked, actually interested in the analysis to come.

"You don't refer to this as the holiday party. No, this is the Christmas party, is it not? That overbearing PC-ness drves you mad. Yet you don't practise Christianity. You observe Christmas because you always have and really, how can you avoid it?"

"Not really a believer in old fat men creeping into houses to leave bizarre gifts for children he's never met. Fucking weird."

"Mmm," Sherlock rumbled.

"I mean, why do parents even do that? Tell their kids father christmas brings them shit? I'd bloody well argue that point. No, Mommy and Daddy paid for that fucking video game and the presents are from us. Not old jolly biscuit muncher."

Sherlock smiled. "Yet you observe Christmas."

John shrugged. "Not much anymore, to be honest."

Not since he and Harry just ended up yelling by the end of every christmas dinner. No, this year, he would be spending Christmas alone, which actually sounded great. No pressure about presents, no long drive out to Clara and Harry's place. No rows. It was great. How had he waited so many years to do this?

"Do you do Christmas?" John asked, realizing he'd never seen Sherlock around this time of year.

The Holmes tilted his head and swigged some wine. "No, not since, well, Mycroft's a farce and neither of us cook, so it's always staff coming in, slaving away. Tedious and horrible and boring."

"Is that why you always work abroad at Christmas?"

Sherlock looked at him, licking the wine from his lips. "Avoidance? No. Last year I actually missed Christmas. Flew over the date line one too many times. You go back and forth enough, and you barely have more than two hours in one city."

John blinked. "Oh, that's kind of cool, actually. It's like you went to the future."

Sherlock smirked and chuckled deeply. He bent down to make sure his words breathed across John's ear. "This is why I find you so amusing, Watson."

John almost twitched his shoulders to combat the thrill that ran down his neck, but he held back. 

He decided to play.

"Oh? So it's not just my arse you like?" He whispered back.

"This arse?" John flinched, expecting a hand.

Sherlock chuckled. "Not in public, Watson. Calm down."

John scowled at Sherlock, noting the mischievous gleam in those pale eyes.

"You're an arse."

Sherlock grinned, "You love my arse. I do believe you last spent an inordinate amount of time reciting rubbish poetry to its glory."

"Oh shut up, I did not."

"No?"

"Shut. Up," John hissed eyes flicking to the side. Sherlock smirked and stood tall, adjusting his suit jacket.

"Dimmock," Sherlock said loudly.

"Uh, yes," Dimmock responded warily. "Just thought I'd come over and, uh, say, happy holidays, sir. All the best, I suppose. New year and all."

Sherlock eyed Dimmock, making the man squirm. John wanted to roll his eyes at the blatant terrorising.

"Yes, Dimmock, Merry Christmas," Sherlock's gaze slid by John before he nodded and moved on, not unlike a toothy shark.

 

"Did he just-" Dimmock gaped.

"Yup," John slugged back the rest of his wine. "You've no alcohol, man. Let's rectify the situation, shall we? After all, you know the party only starts once we move back upstairs."

"Upstairs?" Dimmock blinked as John guided him to the drinks table. "The party moves upstairs?"

"Only if you can handle it," John grinned.

 

-*-

 

John exited to party before he got too smashed, also to exclude himself from any misbehaviour that might ensue.

It was still late, mind. One in the morning. Not too bad, even if he did have work in eight hours.

His phone buzzed and John shivered in the cold night air. He pulled out his mobile.

 

You left - SH

 

It wasn't a question. John smirked and responded.

 

Waiting downstairs, if interested.

 

He clicked send, then had a momentary panic at such a text being sent between corporate phones. Oh, hell, it was ambiguous. He was fine.

 

Seventy three seconds. Do not move. - SH

 

John smiled. Seems the boss was determined this evening. Good. It was Christmas, after all.

 

When the building door finally opened, John turned. "Eighty seven seconds," he said.

Sherlock simply scowled. "Cleaner was in my lift. Minor delay."

John chuckled. "So?" He murmured.

"So?" Sherlock answered back. "Must I say everything, Watson?"

"I don't know what you mean," John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yours or mine?" He huffed.

John held his smile in place, eyes crinkling. "Yours. Always."

Sherlock eyed him. "No. Actually forget my request. I think it's about time we visited your home."

John's eyes shot open wider. "What? Hey, no, wait a second. We always go to-"

Sherlock had started to stride off and John had to catch up. Sherlock hailed a cab. John swore Sherlock was a sorceror, to be able to command the appearance of cabs like that. The Holmes held open the back door, waving John to sit.

John made a face but climbed in anyway.

Sherlock barked out the address before shutting the door after himself.

"Hey, how do you-" John sputtered.

Sherlock just gave him 'the look'.

"Ugh, have I no say in this?" John retaliated as the cab moved into traffic.

"You can say whatever you like, Watson. It is within my rights to ignore you, though."

John frowned deeply and folded his arms. "Bugger."

 

-*-

 

John was nervous when he entered his building. Sherlock had never, ever insinuated he ever wanted to see John's place, never mind ... stay over.

"Hmmm," Sherlock hummed, eyes roaming around the lobby. John mashed the elevator button.

"Don't say it," John breathed.

"Say what?" Sherlock's face was a picture of innocence.

John rolled his eyes, "I know it's not as fancy as your penthouse suite."

"Fancy? Why would I expect fancy?"

That should have irritated John, but he didn't have the energy.

The elevator dinged and the two entered, John pressing his floor's button.

The ride up was silent.

When they emerged, John led the way. He tugged out his keys and pushed open the door to his apartment of the last five years. "You can hang your coat up," John said, immediately taking his own coat off and hanging it up on the row of hooks behind the door.

He wasn't surprised to find Sherlock immediately scanning his place while deftly shucking his long coat and handing it to John.

John sighed mightily and shook his head. "Or I can hang it up, lazy sod."

Sherlock walked into the space and John could feel the cogs clicking away inside that massive brain.

"So, yes," he muttered. "This is home."

It wasn't anything like Sherlock's expansive flat in downtown, but it wasn't anything to shake your head at. John earned a good salary and had gladly signed the lease for this place. It was close to the local, the restaurants and the tube. Really quite a catch. It lacked Sherlock's white, minimalist aesthetic. Instead of fur rugs thrown about and Victorian furniture, John had a lot more framed prints on the wall. He liked art. His couch was grey suede, rather than embroidered cream. His curtains were patterned and his furniture similar, but mismatching. He had loads of books and less of a colour scheme, more of a collection of greens, blues and greys littering the flat.

"Oops," John hissed, moving to put away the dirty dishes in the sink. Dishwasher was full. Damn, he'd have to empty it. "Fuck it," he breathed, letting the dishes drop back. Sherlock was smirking at him.

"What now?" John said.

"You have a much larger balcony than me," the VP purred. God, that voice, even when talking about concrete extrusions...

"Er, yeah, I suppose," John answered.

"What about the bedroom?" Sherlock pushed on, coming around the kitchen counter to press John against the fridge. God, he was smooth.

"Like you can't figure it out." John smiled. He tilted his head. "Down the corridor."

Sherlock smiled wider, teeth bared and he grabbed John by the wrist, pulling him away. The lights weren't on down here, so John stumbled over a lone shoe he'd left lying about. No worry, though, Sherlock knocked open the bedroom door triumphantly.

John hadn't been more proud of himself than at that moment. He'd tidied up! Thank God! No piles of filthy laundry, no crusty tea cups or messed up bed. All perfectly neat.

Sherlock didn't even seem to care. He just pushed John, twisting him about. John sat down on his bed, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock removed his own jacket and promptly got to work on his tie and shirt buttons.

John followed suit, not breaking eye contact.

"Didn't think you'd be about this week," John mumured, tossing his own tie away.

Sherlock flicked his shirt off his shoulders and proceeded to crowd John. His lips pressed to John's neck, seeking, warm and wet. "Oh, I'm about," Sherlock murmured. John shivered. "I'm all about opportunities."

John snorted and tugged off his own shirt, eager to feel Sherlock's chest pressed to his own. He cupped Sherlock's groin in his left hand, which made the VP hitch a breath. 

Sherlock pressed forward some more, tongue licking up John's jaw, over to his lips, where those plush, plush lips could attack.

"Ugh," John grunted, falling back as Sherlock followed. He continued his massage, which only seemed to make Sherlock more determined to kiss him senseless. Their tongues twisted, breath mingling, mouths open with want.

John gave a firm squeeze and Sherlock grunted, pulling back. "You are not playing fair."

His deep voice only added to the lusty gaze he directed down at John.

"I didn't realize we were playing?" John whispered, licking Sherlock's chin wickedly.

Slowly, John released Sherlock as those pale eyes bored into him. His hands drifted to Sherlock's hips. How were they still wearing trousers? 

"Twelve seconds," Sherlock murmured, licking at his own lips.

John stared back, hands still roving, grasping. "Until what?"

Sherlock smirked, "Twelve seconds I gave you before your greedy little paws sought out my arse."

John's fingers stilled, all ten firmly planted on Sherlock's bum. John blinked.

"How-"

"You have an almost obsessive fascination with my derriere," Sherlock purred, leaning in to kiss.

"No. Not possible," John countered.

"Oh yes, Watson. I do believe so."

"Well," John answered, hands grasping what they wanted. Sherlock shifted atop him, John's legs opening wider. Both men huffed out sharp breaths at the contact. "I might need to investigate such allegations, Mister Holmes." John curled his legs over Sherlock's thighs, bringing them even closer.

"Who are you? Inspector Watson?"

John grinned into Sherlock's mouth and firmly squeezed both legs and hands. "Inspector Arse."

That made Sherlock laugh. God, what a lovely sound.

The taller man was grinding now, gently rolling his hips against John, teasing, pressing.

John's cock felt hot and stifled in his trousers. Sherlock's hips only pressed harder.

"Uh," John moaned, fingers pressing into Sherlock's fleshy bottom. "Get these off," he breathed.

Sherlock just rolled his hips some more. John could feel his boss' erection. God.

Then, quite suddenly, Sherlock pushed up and off him.

"Wai-" John blinked, feeling cold.

Sherlock had stood up and was tugging at his belt. He raised a brow and nodded to John's own trousers.

John followed suit and tore at his belt. He also managed to kick off his shoes, fuck his awkward angle. Sherlock chuckled, lifting one foot after the other to remove his own shoes and socks. Ugh, no socks in bed. Heinous.

John was still struggling to shift his socks and lift his hips at the same time. Sherlock assisted.

He rather abruptly grabbed hold of John's belt loops and tugged. John yelped, feeling his trousers torn from him, flying past his knees where he could kick them off haphazardly.

Sherlock didn't seem to want to wait. He clambered over John, eclipsing his view. John could smell him, taste him, touch him. And God did he. 

"Ah," Sherlock squeaked as John not only latched onto a nipple, but also tugged at those bloody boxer briefs that were so tight they were beyond explicit.

"It's a wonder you even fit into those fucking tight trousers at all!" John mumbled.

Sherlock was propped up on his hands, head dropped to stare down his torso. He was watching avidly as John laved at his nipple, a sly smile creeping across his lips. "That's why I have the best tailor in the country."

John laughed, head falling back. He craned his neck back and stared up at Sherlock. "I tailor my suits too, you know."

Sherlock smiled, pale eyes twinkling. "Oh, I know."

John's hands were again on Sherlock's arse, teasing, tickling across the soft skin. 

"How do you fit all this in, though?" John queried, brows furrowing in mock consternation. "I mean, ALL of THIS," he grabbed Sherlock's bum, pressing the taller man's hips down onto his own. His fingers dug in, making Sherlock hiss.

"You really do have a thing for my arse. Fascinating," Sherlock rumbled.

"No, it's just always in my way."

Sherlock cocked a brow. "Oh?"

"Yeah, I was trying to rest my hands somewhere, anywhere, really, but your fat arse is in the way."

"So you shoved them under my pants. Interesting spot."

"No, a warm spot. It's cold outside." He palmed Sherlock's bum.

Sherlock snorted and ground down, making John's eyes roll back.

"Unh, God yes, do that again."

Sherlock complied, hips undulating steadily. His cock, now exposed, rubbing against John's clothed cock.

"Ummmm," John hummed, biting his bottom lip. He uncurled his legs from around Sherlock. "Get here. On your back. I want to suck you off."

Sherlock moved back, but paused. "Hm, perhaps not."

John blinked and craned his neck up to look down his body, where Sherlock dragged at his briefs. Oh God, oh God.

Sherlock kneeled on the floor between John's legs, eyes darting up to connect with John's very wide eyes.

"Are you-?" John breathed.

Sherlock smirked. "Perhaps." He leaned fordward to kiss along the length of John's cock. John tried to not gasp with glee.

"Oh, please do." He whispered hoarsely.

Sherlock opened his mouth and licked his lips lasciviously. "All right then. I suppose it is Christmas."

John drowned his moan by biting his lip as Sherlock sucked him inbetween those full pink lips. "Oh, fuck, Sherlock."

He was a sorceror, a magician, a fucking saint! Oh, those lips, the tongue! John felt his hips twitch and Sherlock sucked him down, up and down. Even the sounds of wetness made John shiver. 

His hands show down, gripping Sherlock's hair. He tugged gently, fingers curling. Sherlock growled, tongue lapping, massaging.

When Sherlock pulled back to jerk John off while keeping the head in his mouth, John almost passed out. It was glorious.

So close. He was thrumming, his blood boiling, fingers twitching.

"Sh-Sher-ah!" John squeaked.

Sherlock pulled his mouth away, hand speeding up.

John flexed, hips lifting. "I'm close!" 

"No," Sherlock stopped abruptly.

"Wha?" John askedly dazedly. 

"I want to fuck you, Watson. Budge up. Where's your lube?"

Sherlock pushed John up the bed and immediately leaned over to the bedside table. "Tell me you have lubrication, Watson."

"Er..." John answered. Sherlock turned.

"You are joking."

John shrugged, still shivery, still unbelievably turned on. "We always go to yours. You always have."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am not your sexual and financial institution."

"I'll buy next time," John huffed, chest heaving. His cock was leaking onto his belly. "We don't need to-"

"No, I suppose not," Sherlock grunted, grabbing John's hands and pulling. John sat up, head lolling. Sherlock scooched closer, eyes dark with intent, curls unraveling like thunder clouds. He scooched so close, he was able to hoist John's legs over his own long ones. John settled the back of his knees over Sherlock's thighs, one hand coming to rest at Sherlock's nape.

They were unbelievably close. Both their breaths were sharp, skin damp.

"Watson," Sherlock growled. His pale hand pulled John's free hand down to his groin.

Oh. Right.

John took Sherlock in hand, forehead resting on Sherlock's collarbone. From this vanatge he could watch as his fingers slid up and down Sherlock's length. Mesmerizing.

Thankfully, Sherlock hitched in breath and grabbed John too. Those long, pale fingers wrapped aroung John again and he couldn't be happier.

Slick sounds were heard. Sherlock huffed warm breath over John's ear. This would do.

John scooched closer, wanting to feel more. "God, yes. That's-that's perrrrfect..."

"Watson," Sherlock rumbled deeply, sending sparks exploding down John's back. 

"Sherlock," John responded, hips shaking. "I'm - "

Sherlock cottoned on, hand flexing, then gripping tighter. John responded too, hand moving faster. The two men gasped and twitched, the wet sounds of their wanking surrounding them.

"Unh!" Sherlock shuddered as John pulled his foreskin over and back, squeezing precome out.

"Jesus," John blinked, his vision blurring. Here we go.

John spurted over Sherlock's fingers, his hand tugging at Sherlock's curls. Sherlock bent down closer, lips pressing to John's shoulder. He gave a nip of frustration as John whined, his hands tight, squeezing and tugging Sherlock tightly.

Sherlock moaned as his cock stiffened some more, ejaculating over John's fingers and stomach.

Oh, it was magical. Like whiting out.

Both men breathed harshly.

"Ugh," John cleared his rusty throat. "Amazing. My legs hurt."

"Mine are numb," Sherlock rumbled, eyes drooping.

"Good," John breathed, letting Sherlock go and suddenly flopping back.

Sherlock eyed the man in the afterglow. That firm, steady frame, muscular legs and beyond fuckable demeanour.

"Lie down," John murred, speech slurring.

Sherlock complied, by extricating himself. He moved over John and slumped over the shorter man, knocking the wind from him.

"Oof!" John got out.

"Mmm," Sherlock nuzzled John. He could feel the man's twitching. Ever so subtle, but there.

"M-ry...krsh...ss," John mumbled into his skin.

"It's Happy, Watson. Happy Christmas."

John snorted. "Wh'ever. Shut up."

Sherlock chuckled. "Ten seconds."

"Damnit!" John cried out, realizing he had two handfuls of arse already clenched between his fingers.

 

-*-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! And if you don't do Christmas! Merry Whatever makes you happy! \o/

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that. I certainly do love this genre.


End file.
